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+Project Gutenberg's The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July 1893, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July 1893
+       An Illustrated Monthly
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: May 7, 2008 [EBook #25372]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLER MAGAZINE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines,
+Jonathan Ingram, Anne Storer and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcribers Notes: Title and Table of Contents added.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+ THE IDLER MAGAZINE.
+ AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY.
+
+ July 1893.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+ CONTENTS.
+
+
+ THE WOMAN OF THE SAETER.
+     BY JEROME K. JEROME.
+
+ ALPHONSE DAUDET AT HOME.
+     BY MARIE ADELAIDE BELLOC.
+
+ THE DISMAL THRONG.
+     BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
+
+ IN THE HANDS OF JEFFERSON.
+     BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
+
+ MY FIRST BOOK.
+     BY I. ZANGWILL.
+
+ BY THE LIGHT OF THE LAMP.
+     BY HILDA NEWMAN.
+
+ MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST.
+     III.--ONE DAY.
+     BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.
+
+ A SLAVE OF THE RING.
+     BY ALFRED BERLYN.
+
+ PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET.
+     BY SCOTT RANKIN.
+
+ THE IDLER'S CLUB
+     "TIPPING."
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE VENGEANCE OF HUND.]
+
+_The Woman of the Saeter._
+
+BY JEROME K. JEROME.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. S. BOYD.
+
+          -----
+
+Wild-Reindeer stalking is hardly so exciting a sport as the evening's
+verandah talk in Norroway hotels would lead the trustful traveller to
+suppose. Under the charge of your guide, a very young man with the
+dreamy, wistful eyes of those who live in valleys, you leave the
+farmstead early in the forenoon, arriving towards twilight at the
+desolate hut which, for so long as you remain upon the uplands, will be
+your somewhat cheerless headquarters.
+
+Next morning, in the chill, mist-laden dawn you rise; and, after a
+breakfast of coffee and dried fish, shoulder your Remington, and step
+forth silently into the raw, damp air; the guide locking the door behind
+you, the key grating harshly in the rusty lock.
+
+For hour after hour you toil over the steep, stony ground, or wind
+through the pines, speaking in whispers, lest your voice reach the quick
+ears of your prey, that keeps its head ever pressed against the wind.
+Here and there, in the hollows of the hills, lie wide fields of snow,
+over which you pick your steps thoughtfully, listening to the smothered
+thunder of the torrent, tunnelling its way beneath your feet, and
+wondering whether the frozen arch above it be at all points as firm as
+is desirable. Now and again, as in single file you walk cautiously along
+some jagged ridge, you catch glimpses of the green world, three thousand
+feet below you; though you gaze not long upon the view, for your
+attention is chiefly directed to watching the footprints of the guide,
+lest by deviating to the right or left you find yourself at one stride
+back in the valley--or, to be more correct, are found there.
+
+These things you do, and as exercise they are healthful and
+invigorating. But a reindeer you never see, and unless, overcoming the
+prejudices of your British-bred conscience, you care to take an
+occasional pop at a fox, you had better have left your rifle at the hut,
+and, instead, have brought a stick, which would have been helpful.
+Notwithstanding which the guide continues sanguine, and in broken
+English, helped out by stirring gesture, tells of the terrible slaughter
+generally done by sportsmen under his superintendence, and of the vast
+herds that generally infest these fjelds; and when you grow sceptical
+upon the subject of Reins he whispers alluringly of Bears.
+
+Once in a way you will come across a track, and will follow it
+breathlessly for hours, and it will lead to a sheer precipice. Whether
+the explanation is suicide, or a reprehensible tendency on the part of
+the animal towards practical joking, you are left to decide for
+yourself. Then, with many rough miles between you and your rest, you
+abandon the chase.
+
+But I speak from personal experience merely.
+
+All day long we had tramped through the pitiless rain, stopping only for
+an hour at noon to eat some dried venison, and smoke a pipe beneath the
+shelter of an overhanging cliff. Soon afterwards Michael knocked over a
+ryper (a bird that will hardly take the trouble to hop out of your way)
+with his gun-barrel, which incident cheered us a little, and, later on,
+our flagging spirits were still further revived by the discovery of
+apparently very recent deer-tracks. These we followed, forgetful, in our
+eagerness, of the lengthening distance back to the hut, of the fading
+daylight, of the gathering mist. The track led us higher and higher,
+further and further into the mountains, until on the shores of a
+desolate rock-bound vand it abruptly ended, and we stood staring at one
+another, and the snow began to fall.
+
+Unless in the next half-hour we could chance upon a saeter, this meant
+passing the night upon the mountain. Michael and I looked at the guide,
+but though, with characteristic Norwegian sturdiness, he put a bold face
+upon it, we could see that in that deepening darkness he knew no more
+than we did. Wasting no time on words, we made straight for the nearest
+point of descent, knowing that any human habitation must be far below
+us.
+
+Down we scrambled, heedless of torn clothes and bleeding hands, the
+darkness pressing closer round us. Then suddenly it became black--black
+as pitch--and we could only hear each other. Another step might mean
+death. We stretched out our hands, and felt each other. Why we spoke in
+whispers, I do not know, but we seemed afraid of our own voices. We
+agreed there was nothing for it but to stop where we were till morning,
+clinging to the short grass; so we lay there side by side, for what may
+have been five minutes or may have been an hour. Then, attempting to
+turn, I lost my grip and rolled. I made convulsive efforts to clutch the
+ground, but the incline was too steep. How far I fell I could not say,
+but at last something stopped me. I felt it cautiously with my foot; it
+did not yield, so I twisted myself round and touched it with my hand. It
+seemed planted firmly in the earth. I passed my arm along to the right,
+then to the left. Then I shouted with joy. It was a fence.
+
+[Illustration: "CLINGING TO THE SHORT GRASS."]
+
+Rising and groping about me, I found an opening, and passed through, and
+crept forward with palms outstretched until I touched the logs of a hut;
+then, feeling my way round, discovered the door, and knocked. There came
+no response, so I knocked louder; then pushed, and the heavy woodwork
+yielded, groaning. But the darkness within was even darker than the
+darkness without. The others had contrived to crawl down and join me.
+Michael struck a wax vesta and held it up, and slowly the room came out
+of the darkness and stood round us.
+
+Then something rather startling happened. Giving one swift glance about
+him, our guide uttered a cry, and rushed out into the night, and
+disappeared. We followed to the door, and called after him, but only a
+voice came to us out of the blackness, and the only words that we could
+catch, shrieked back in terror, were: "The woman of the saeter--the
+woman of the saeter."
+
+"Some foolish superstition about the place, I suppose," said Michael.
+"In these mountain solitudes men breed ghosts for company. Let us make a
+fire. Perhaps, when he sees the light, his desire for food and shelter
+may get the better of his fears."
+
+We felt about in the small enclosure round the house, and gathered
+juniper and birch-twigs, and kindled a fire upon the open stove built in
+the corner of the room. Fortunately, we had some dried reindeer and
+bread in our bag, and on that and the ryper, and the contents of our
+flasks, we supped. Afterwards, to while away the time, we made an
+inspection of the strange eyrie we had lighted on.
+
+It was an old log-built saeter. Some of these mountain farmsteads are as
+old as the stone ruins of other countries. Carvings of strange beasts
+and demons were upon its blackened rafters, and on the lintel, in runic
+letters, ran this legend: "Hund builded me in the days of Haarfager."
+The house consisted of two large apartments. Originally, no doubt, these
+had been separate dwellings standing beside one another, but they were
+now connected by a long, low gallery. Most of the scanty furniture was
+almost as ancient as the walls themselves, but many articles of a
+comparatively recent date had been added. All was now, however, rotting
+and falling into decay.
+
+[Illustration: "BY THE DULL GLOW OF THE BURNING JUNIPER TWIGS."]
+
+The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly by its last occupants.
+Household utensils lay as they were left, rust and dirt encrusted on
+them. An open book, limp and mildewed, lay face downwards on the table,
+while many others were scattered about both rooms, together with much
+paper, scored with faded ink. The curtains hung in shreds about the
+windows; a woman's cloak, of an antiquated fashion, drooped from a nail
+behind the door. In an oak chest we found a tumbled heap of yellow
+letters. They were of various dates, extending over a period of four
+months, and with them, apparently intended to receive them, lay a large
+envelope, inscribed with an address in London that has since
+disappeared.
+
+Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples, we read them by the dull
+glow of the burning juniper twigs, and, as we lay aside the last of
+them, there rose from the depths below us a wailing cry, and all night
+long it rose and died away, and rose again, and died away again; whether
+born of our brain or of some human thing, God knows.
+
+[Illustration: "I SPEND AS MUCH TIME AS I CAN WITH HER."]
+
+And these, a little altered and shortened, are the letters:--
+
+
+                _Extract from first letter:_
+
+"I cannot tell you, my dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is
+to me after the racket and fret of town. I am almost quite recovered
+already, and am growing stronger every day; and, joy of joys, my brain
+has come back to me, fresher and more vigorous, I think, for its
+holiday. In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely, and the
+difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic. We are perched
+upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain. On one side the rock rises
+almost perpendicularly, piercing the sky; while on the other, two
+thousand feet below us, the torrent hurls itself into black waters of
+the fiord. The house consists of two rooms--or, rather, it is two cabins
+connected by a passage. The larger one we use as a living room, and the
+other is our sleeping apartment. We have no servant, but do everything
+for ourselves. I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely. The nearest
+human habitation is eight miles away, across the mountain, and not a
+soul comes near us. I spend as much time as I can with her, however,
+during the day, and make up for it by working at night after she has
+gone to sleep, and when I question her, she only laughs, and answers
+that she loves to have me all to herself. (Here you will smile
+cynically, I know, and say, 'Humph, I wonder will she say the same when
+they have been married six years instead of six months.') At the rate I
+am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the end of
+August, and then, my dear fellow, you must try and come over, and we
+will walk and talk together 'amid these storm-reared temples of the
+gods.' I have felt a new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to
+'cudgel my brains,' as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will
+make my name."
+
+
+    _Part of the third letter, the second being mere talk about the
+         book (a history apparently) that the man was writing:_
+
+"My dear Joyce,--I have written you two letters--this will make the
+third--but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been
+expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are
+kindly people towards strangers--to say nothing of the inducements of
+trade. A fortnight having passed, however, and the commissariat question
+having become serious, I yesterday set out before dawn, and made my way
+down to the valley; and this gives me something to tell you. Nearing the
+village, I met a peasant woman. To my intense surprise, instead of
+returning my salutation, she stared at me, as if I were some wild
+animal, and shrank away from me as far as the width of the road would
+permit. In the village the same experience awaited me. The children ran
+from me, the people avoided me. At last a grey-haired old man appeared
+to take pity on me, and from him I learnt the explanation of the
+mystery. It seems there is a strange superstition attaching to this
+house in which we are living. My things were brought up here by the two
+men who accompanied me from Dronthiem, but the natives are afraid to go
+near the place, and prefer to keep as far as possible from anyone
+connected with it.
+
+"The story is that the house was built by one Hund, 'a maker of runes'
+(one of the old saga writers, no doubt), who lived here with his young
+wife. All went peacefully until, unfortunately for him, a certain maiden
+stationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him.--Forgive me if I am
+telling you what you know, but a 'saeter' is the name given to the
+upland pastures to which, during the summer, are sent the cattle,
+generally under the charge of one or more of the maids. Here for three
+months these girls will live in their lonely huts entirely shut off from
+the world. Customs change little in this land. Two or three such
+stations are within climbing distance of this house, at this day, looked
+after by the farmers' daughters, as in the days of Hund, 'maker of
+runes.'
+
+"Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would come and tap
+lightly at Hund's door. Hund had built himself two cabins, one behind
+the other (these are now, as I think I have explained to you, connected
+by a passage); the smaller one was the homestead, in the other he carved
+and wrote, so that while the young wife slept the 'maker of runes' and
+the saeter woman sat whispering.
+
+[Illustration: "THE WOMAN WOULD TAP LIGHTLY AT HUND'S DOOR."]
+
+"One night, however, the wife learnt all things, but said no word. Then,
+as now, the ravine in front of the enclosure was crossed by a slight
+bridge of planks, and over this bridge the woman of the saeter passed
+and re-passed each night. On a day when Hund had gone down to fish in
+the fiord, the wife took an axe, and hacked and hewed at the bridge, yet
+it still looked firm and solid; and that night, as Hund sat waiting in
+his workshop, there struck upon his ears a piercing cry, and a crashing
+of logs and rolling rock, and then again the dull roaring of the torrent
+far below.
+
+"But the woman did not die unavenged, for that winter a man, skating far
+down the fiord, noticed a curious object embedded in the ice; and when,
+stooping, he looked closer, he saw two corpses, one gripping the other
+by the throat, and the bodies were the bodies of Hund and his young
+wife.
+
+"Since then, they say the woman of the saeter haunts Hund's house, and
+if she sees a light within she taps upon the door, and no man may keep
+her out. Many, at different times, have tried to occupy the house, but
+strange tales are told of them. 'Men do not live at Hund's saeter,' said
+my old grey-haired friend, concluding his tale, 'they die there.' I have
+persuaded some of the braver of the villagers to bring what provisions
+and other necessaries we require up to a plateau about a mile from the
+house and leave them there. That is the most I have been able to do. It
+comes somewhat as a shock to one to find men and women--fairly educated
+and intelligent as many of them are--slaves to fears that one would
+expect a child to laugh at. But there is no reasoning with
+superstition."
+
+
+   _Extract from the same letter, but from a part seemingly written
+                         a day or two later:_
+
+"At home I should have forgotten such a tale an hour after I had heard
+it, but these mountain fastnesses seem strangely fit to be the last
+stronghold of the supernatural. The woman haunts me already. At night,
+instead of working, I find myself listening for her tapping at the door;
+and yesterday an incident occurred that makes me fear for my own common
+sense. I had gone out for a long walk alone, and the twilight was
+thickening into darkness as I neared home. Suddenly looking up from my
+reverie, I saw, standing on a knoll the other side of the ravine, the
+figure of a woman. She held a cloak about her head, and I could not see
+her face. I took off my cap, and called out a good-night to her, but she
+never moved or spoke. Then, God knows why, for my brain was full of
+other thoughts at the time, a clammy chill crept over me, and my tongue
+grew dry and parched. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her across
+the yawning gorge that divided us, and slowly she moved away, and passed
+into the gloom; and I continued my way. I have said nothing to Muriel,
+and shall not. The effect the story has had upon myself warns me not
+to."
+
+
+               _From a letter dated eleven days later:_
+
+"She has come. I have known she would since that evening I saw her on
+the mountain, and last night she came, and we have sat and looked into
+each other's eyes. You will say, of course, that I am mad--that I have
+not recovered from my fever--that I have been working too hard--that I
+have heard a foolish tale, and that it has filled my overstrung brain
+with foolish fancies--I have told myself all that. But the thing came,
+nevertheless--a creature of flesh and blood? a creature of air? a
+creature of my own imagination? what matter; it was real to me.
+
+"It came last night, as I sat working, alone. Each night I have waited
+for it, listened for it--longed for it, I know now. I heard the passing
+of its feet upon the bridge, the tapping of its hand upon the door,
+three times--tap, tap, tap. I felt my loins grow cold, and a pricking
+pain about my head, and I gripped my chair with both hands, and waited,
+and again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. I rose and slipped the
+bolt of the door leading to the other room, and again I waited, and
+again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. Then I opened the heavy
+outer door, and the wind rushed past me, scattering my papers, and the
+woman entered in, and I closed the door behind her. She threw her hood
+back from her head, and unwound a kerchief from about her neck, and laid
+it on the table. Then she crossed and sat before the fire, and I noticed
+her bare feet were damp with the night dew.
+
+[Illustration: "THE WOMAN ENTERED."]
+
+"I stood over against her and gazed at her, and she smiled at me--a
+strange, wicked smile, but I could have laid my soul at her feet. She
+never spoke or moved, and neither did I feel the need of spoken words,
+for I understood the meaning of those upon the Mount when they said,
+'Let us make here tabernacles: it is good for us to be here.'
+
+"How long a time passed thus I do not know, but suddenly the woman held
+her hand up, listening, and there came a faint sound from the other
+room. Then swiftly she drew her hood about her face and passed out,
+closing the door softly behind her; and I drew back the bolt of the
+inner door and waited, and hearing nothing more, sat down, and must have
+fallen asleep in my chair.
+
+"I awoke, and instantly there flashed through my mind the thought of the
+kerchief the woman had left behind her, and I started from my chair to
+hide it. But the table was already laid for breakfast, and my wife sat
+with her elbows on the table and her head between her hands, watching me
+with a look in her eyes that was new to me.
+
+"She kissed me, though her lips were a little cold, and I argued to
+myself that the whole thing must have been a dream. But later in the
+day, passing the open door when her back was towards me, I saw her take
+the kerchief from a locked chest and look at it.
+
+"I have told myself it must have been a kerchief of her own, and that
+all the rest has been my imagination--that if not, then my strange
+visitant was no spirit, but a woman, and that, if human thing knows
+human thing, it was no creature of flesh and blood that sat beside me
+last night. Besides, what woman would she be? The nearest saeter is a
+three hours' climb to a strong man, the paths are dangerous even in
+daylight: what woman would have found them in the night? What woman
+would have chilled the air around her, and have made the blood flow cold
+through all my veins? Yet if she come again I will speak to her. I will
+stretch out my hand and see whether she be mortal thing or only air."
+
+
+                        _The fifth letter:_
+
+"My dear Joyce,--Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is
+doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read to
+you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may one
+day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you, can
+laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide away--putting
+the words down on paper saves my screaming them aloud.
+
+"She comes each night now, taking the same seat beside the embers, and
+fixing upon me those eyes, with the hell-light in them, that burn into
+my brain; and at rare times she smiles, and all my Being passes out of
+me, and is hers. I make no attempt to work. I sit listening for her
+footsteps on the creaking bridge, for the rustling of her feet upon the
+grass, for the tapping of her hand upon the door. No word is uttered
+between us. Each day I say: 'When she comes to-night I will speak to
+her. I will stretch out my hand and touch her.' Yet when she enters, all
+thought and will goes out from me.
+
+[Illustration: "I STOOD GAZING AT HER."]
+
+"Last night, as I stood gazing at her, my soul filled with her wondrous
+beauty as a lake with moonlight, her lips parted, and she started from
+her chair, and, turning, I thought I saw a white face pressed against
+the window, but as I looked it vanished. Then she drew her cloak about
+her, and passed out. I slid back the bolt I always draw now, and stole
+into the other room, and, taking down the lantern, held it above the
+bed. But Muriel's eyes were closed as if in sleep."
+
+
+                    _Extract from the sixth letter:_
+
+"It is not the night I fear, but the day. I hate the sight of this woman
+with whom I live, whom I call 'wife.' I shrink from the blow of her cold
+lips, the curse of her stony eyes. She has seen, she has learnt; I feel
+it, I know it. Yet she winds her arms around my neck, and calls me
+sweetheart, and smooths my hair with her soft, false hands. We speak
+mocking words of love to one another, but I know her cruel eyes are ever
+following me. She is plotting her revenge, and I hate her, I hate her, I
+hate her!"
+
+
+                    _Part of the seventh letter:_
+
+"This morning I went down to the fiord. I told her I should not be back
+until the evening. She stood by the door watching me until we were mere
+specks to one another, and a promontory of the mountain shut me from
+view. Then, turning aside from the track, I made my way, running and
+stumbling over the jagged ground, round to the other side of the
+mountain, and began to climb again. It was slow, weary work. Often I had
+to go miles out of my road to avoid a ravine, and twice I reached a high
+point only to have to descend again. But at length I crossed the ridge,
+and crept down to a spot from where, concealed, I could spy upon my own
+house. She--my wife--stood by the flimsy bridge. A short hatchet, such
+as butchers use, was in her hand. She leant against a pine trunk, with
+her arm behind her, as one stands whose back aches with long stooping in
+some cramped position; and even at that distance I could see the cruel
+smile about her lips.
+
+"Then I recrossed the ridge, and crawled down again, and, waiting until
+evening, walked slowly up the path. As I came in view of the house she
+saw me, and waved her handkerchief to me, and, in answer, I waved my
+hat, and shouted curses at her that the wind whirled away into the
+torrent. She met me with a kiss, and I breathed no hint to her that I
+had seen. Let her devil's work remain undisturbed. Let it prove to me
+what manner of thing this is that haunts me. If it be a Spirit, then the
+bridge will bear it safely; if it be woman----
+
+"But I dismiss the thought. If it be human thing why does it sit gazing
+at me, never speaking; why does my tongue refuse to question it; why
+does all power forsake me in its presence, so that I stand as in a
+dream? Yet if it be Spirit, why do I hear the passing of her feet; and
+why does the night-rain glisten on her hair?
+
+[Illustration: "TO THE UTMOST EDGE."]
+
+"I force myself back into my chair. It is far into the night, and I am
+alone, waiting, listening. If it be Spirit, she will come to me; and if
+it be woman, I shall hear her cry above the storm--unless it be a demon
+mocking me.
+
+"I have heard the cry. It rose, piercing and shrill, above the storm,
+above the riving and rending of the bridge, above the downward crashing
+of the logs and loosened stones. I hear it as I listen now. It is
+cleaving its way upward from the depths below. It is wailing through the
+room as I sit writing.
+
+"I have crawled upon my belly to the utmost edge of the still standing
+pier until I could feel with my hand the jagged splinters left by the
+fallen planks, and have looked down. But the chasm was full to the brim
+with darkness. I shouted, but the wind shook my voice into mocking
+laughter. I sit here, feebly striking at the madness that is creeping
+nearer and nearer to me. I tell myself the whole thing is but the fever
+in my brain. The bridge was rotten. The storm was strong. The cry is but
+a single one among the many voices of the mountain. Yet still I listen,
+and it rises, clear and shrill, above the moaning of the pines, above
+the mighty sobbing of the waters. It beats like blows upon my skull, and
+I know that she will never come again."
+
+
+                    _Extract from the last letter:_
+
+"I shall address an envelope to you, and leave it among them. Then,
+should I never come back, some chance wanderer may one day find and post
+them to you, and you will know.
+
+"My books and writings remain untouched. We sit together of a
+night--this woman I call 'wife' and I--she holding in her hands some
+knitted thing that never grows longer by a single stitch, and I with a
+volume before me that is ever open at the same page. And day and night
+we watch each other stealthily, moving to and fro about the silent
+house; and at times, looking round swiftly, I catch the smile upon her
+lips before she has time to smooth it away.
+
+"We speak like strangers about this and that, making talk to hide our
+thoughts. We make a pretence of busying ourselves about whatever will
+help us to keep apart from one another.
+
+"At night, sitting here between the shadows and the dull glow of the
+smouldering twigs, I sometimes think I hear the tapping I have learnt to
+listen for, and I start from my seat, and softly open the door and look
+out. But only the Night stands there. Then I close-to the latch, and
+she--the living woman--asks me in her purring voice what sound I heard,
+hiding a smile as she stoops low over her work, and I answer lightly,
+and, moving towards her, put my arm about her, feeling her softness and
+her suppleness, and wondering, supposing I held her close to me with one
+arm while pressing her from me with the other, how long before I should
+hear the cracking of her bones.
+
+"For here, amid these savage solitudes, I also am grown savage. The old
+primeval passions of love and hate stir within me, and they are fierce
+and cruel and strong, beyond what you men of the later ages could
+understand. The culture of the centuries has fallen from me as a flimsy
+garment whirled away by the mountain wind; the old savage instincts of
+the race lie bare. One day I shall twine my fingers about her full white
+throat, and her eyes will slowly come towards me, and her lips will
+part, and the red tongue creep out; and backwards, step by step, I shall
+push her before me, gazing the while upon her bloodless face, and it
+will be my turn to smile. Backwards through the open door, backwards
+along the garden path between the juniper bushes, backwards till her
+heels are overhanging the ravine, and she grips life with nothing but
+her little toes, I shall force her, step by step, before me. Then I
+shall lean forward, closer, closer, till I kiss her purpling lips, and
+down, down, down, past the startled sea-birds, past the white spray of
+the foss, past the downward peeping pines, down, down, down, we will go
+together, till we find my love where she lies sleeping beneath the
+waters of the fiord."
+
+
+With these words ended the last letter, unsigned. At the first streak of
+dawn we left the house, and, after much wandering, found our way back to
+the valley. But of our guide we heard no news. Whether he remained still
+upon the mountain, or whether by some false step he had perished upon
+that night, we never learnt.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: ALPHONSE DAUDET.]
+
+_Alphonse Daudet at Home._
+
+BY MARIE ADELAIDE BELLOC.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAN BERG, J. BARNARD DAVIS, AND E. M. JESSOP.
+
+          -----
+
+M. and Madame Alphonse Daudet--for it is impossible to mention the great
+French writer without also immediately recalling the personality of the
+lady who has been his best friend, his tireless collaboratrice, and his
+constant companion during the last twenty-five years--have made their
+home on the top storey of a fine stately house in the Rue de Belle
+Chasse, a narrow old-world street running from the Boulevard Saint
+Germain up into the Quartier Latin.
+
+[Illustration: MADAME DAUDET.]
+
+Like most houses on the left bank of the Seine, the "hotel" is built
+round a large courtyard, the Daudets' pretty _appartement_ being
+situated on the side furthest from the street, and commanding a splendid
+view of Southern Paris, whilst in the immediate foreground is one of
+those peaceful, quiet gardens, owned by some of the old Paris religious
+foundations still left undisturbed by the march of Republican time.
+
+The study in which Alphonse Daudet does all his work, and receives his
+more intimate friends, is opposite the hall door, but a strict watch is
+kept by Madame Daudet's faithful servants, and no one is allowed to
+break in upon the privacy of _le maître_ without some good and
+sufficient reason. Few writers are so personally popular with their
+readers as is Alphonse Daudet; there is about most of his books a
+strange magnetic charm, and every post brings him quaint, curious, and
+often pathetic, epistles from men and women all over the world, and of
+every nationality, discussing his characters, suggesting alterations,
+offering him plots, and asking his advice on their own most intimate
+cases of conscience, whilst, if he were to grant all the requests for
+personal interviews which come to him day by day, he would literally
+have not a moment for work or leisure.
+
+[Illustration: DAUDET AT WORK.]
+
+But to those who have the good fortune of his acquaintance, M. Daudet is
+the most delightful and courteous of hosts, and, though rarely alluding
+to his own work in conversation, he will always answer those questions
+put to him to the best of his ability, and as one who has thought much
+and deeply on most subjects of human interest.
+
+The first glance shows you that Daudet's study is a real work room;
+there is no straining after effect; the plain, comfortable furniture,
+including the large solid writing table covered with papers, proofs,
+literary biblots, and the various instruments necessary to his craft,
+were made and presented to him by a number of workmen, his military
+comrades during the war, and serve to perpetually remind him of what, he
+says, has been the most instructive and intensely interesting period of
+his life. "That terrible year," I have heard him exclaim more than once,
+"taught me many things. It was then for the first time that I learned to
+appreciate our workpeople, _le peuple_. Had it not been for what I then
+went through, one whole side of good human nature would have been shut
+to me. The Paris _ouvrier_ is a splendid fellow, and among my best
+friends I reckon some of those who fought by my side in 1870."
+
+During those same eventful months M. Daudet made the acquaintance of the
+man who was afterwards to prove his most indefatigable helper; it was
+between one of the long waits outside the fortifications. To his
+surprise, the novelist saw a young soldier reading a Latin book. In
+answer to a question, the _pioupiou_ explained that he had been brought
+up to be a priest, but had finally changed his mind and become a
+workman. Now, the ex seminarist is M. Daudet's daily companion and
+literary agent; it is he who makes all the necessary arrangements with
+editors and publishers, and several of Daudet's later writings have been
+dictated to him.
+
+All that refers to a great writer's methods cannot but be of interest.
+Daudet's novels are really human documents, for from early youth he has
+put down from day to day, almost from hour to hour, all that he has
+seen, heard, and done. He calls his note-books "my memory." When about
+to start a new novel he draws out a general plan, then he copies out all
+the incidents from his note-books which he thinks will be of value to
+him for the story. The next step is to make out a rough list of
+chapters, and then, with infinite care, and constant corrections, he
+begins writing out the book, submitting each page to his wife's
+criticism, and discussing with her the working out of every incident,
+and the arrangement of every episode. Unlike most novelists, M. Daudet
+does not care to always write on the same paper, and his manuscripts are
+not all written on paper of the same size. Of late he has been using
+some large, rough hand-made sheets, which Victor Hugo had specially made
+for his own use, and which have been given to M. Daudet by Georges Hugo,
+who knew what a pleasure his grandfather would have taken in the thought
+that any of his literary leavings would have been useful to his little
+Jeanne's father-in-law, for it will be remembered that Léon Daudet, the
+novelist's eldest child, married some three years ago "Peach Blossom"
+Hugo, for whom was written _L'Art d'être Grand-père_.
+
+Although M. Daudet takes precious care of his little note-books, both
+past and present, he has never troubled himself much as to what became
+of the fair copies of his novels. They remain in the printers' and
+publishers' hands, and will probably some day attain a fabulous value.
+
+His handwriting is clear, and somewhat feminine in form, and he always
+uses a steel pen. Till his health broke down he wrote every word of his
+manuscripts himself, but of late he has been obliged to dictate to his
+wife and two secretaries; re-writing, however, much of his work in the
+margin of the manuscript, and also adding to, and polishing, each
+chapter in proof, for no writer pays more attention to style and
+chiselled form than the man who has been called the French Dickens, and
+whose compositions, to the uninitiated, would seem to be singularly
+spontaneous.
+
+Since the war M. Daudet has never had an hour's sleep without artificial
+aid, such as chloral; but devotees of Lady Nicotine will be interested
+to learn that in answer to a question he once said, "I have smoked a
+great deal while working, and the more I smoked the better I worked. I
+have never noticed that tobacco is injurious, but I must admit that,
+when I am not well, even the smell of a cigarette is odious." He added
+that he had a great horror of alcohol as a stimulant for work, and has
+ofttimes been heard to say that those who believe in working on spirits
+had better make up their minds to become total abstainers if they hope
+to achieve anything in the way of literature.
+
+Unlike most literary _ménages_, M. and Madame Daudet are one of those
+happy couples who are said by cynics to be the exceptions which prove
+the rule. Literary men are proverbially unlucky in their helpmates; and
+geniuses have been proved again and again to reserve their fitful
+humours and uncertain tempers for home use. M. and Madame Daudet are at
+once sympathetic, literary partners, and the happiest of married
+couples; in _L'Enfance d'une Parisienne_, _Enfants et Mères_, and
+_Fragments d'un Livre Inédit_, Madame Daudet has proved that she is in
+her own way as original and delicate an artist as her husband. She has
+never written a novel, but, as a great French critic once aptly
+remarked, "Each one of her books contains the essence of innumerable
+novels." Her literary work has been an afterthought, an accident; she is
+not anxious to make a name by her writing, and her most intimate friends
+have never heard her mention her literary faculty; like most
+Frenchwomen, a devoted mother, when not helping her husband, she is
+absorbed in her children, and whilst her boys were at the Lycée she
+taught herself Latin in order to help them prepare their lessons every
+evening; and she is now her young daughter's closest companion and
+friend.
+
+One of the most charming characteristics of Alphonse Daudet is his love
+for, and pride in, his wife. "I often think of my first meeting with
+her," he will say. "I was quite a young fellow, and had a great
+prejudice against literary women, and especially against poetesses, but
+I came, saw, and was conquered, and," he will conclude smiling, "I have
+remained under the charm ever since.... People sometimes ask me whether
+I approve of women writing; how should I not, when my own wife has
+always written, and when all that is best in my literary work is owing
+to her influence and suggestion. There are whole realms of human nature
+which we men cannot explore. We have not eyes to see, nor hearts to
+understand, certain subtle things which a woman perceives at once; yes,
+women have a mission to fulfil in the literature of to-day."
+
+[Illustration: THE PROVENÇAL FURNITURE.]
+
+Strangely enough, M. Daudet made the acquaintance of his future wife
+through a favourable review he wrote of a volume of verse published by
+her parents, M. and Madame Allard. They were so pleased with the notice
+that they wrote and asked the critic to come and see them. How truly
+thankful the one time critic must now feel that he was inspired to deal
+gently by the little _bouquin_.
+
+Madame Daudet is devoted to art, and her pretty _salon_ is one of the
+most artistic _intérieurs_ in Paris, whilst the dining-room, fitted up
+with old Provençal furniture, looks as though it had been lifted bodily
+out of some fastness in troubadour land.
+
+The tie between the novelist and his children is a very close one; he
+has said of Léon that there stands his best work; and, indeed, the young
+man is in a fair way to make his father's words come true, for,
+inheriting much of both parents' literary faculty, M. Léon Daudet lately
+made his _débût_ as a novelist with _Hoerès_, a remarkable story with
+a purpose, in which the author strove to explain his somewhat curious
+theories on the laws of heredity. Having originally been intended for
+the medical profession, he takes a special interest in this subject. It
+is curious that three such distinct and different literary gifts should
+exist simultaneously in the same family.
+
+As soon as even the cool, narrow streets of the Quartier Latin begin to
+grow dusty and sultry with summer heat, the whole Daudet family emigrate
+to the novelist's charming country cottage at Champrosay. There old
+friends, such as M. Edmond de Goncourt, are ever made welcome, and life
+is one long holiday for those who bring no work with them. Daudet
+himself has described his country home as being "situated thirty miles
+from Paris, at a lovely bend of the Seine, a provincial Seine invaded by
+bulrushes, purple irises, and water-lilies, bearing on its bosom tufts
+of grass, and clumps of tangled roots, on which the tired dragon-flies
+alight, and allow themselves to be lazily floated down the stream."
+
+[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.]
+
+It was in a round, ivy-clad pavilion overhanging the river that _le
+maître du logis_ wrote _L'Immortel_. On an exceptionally fine day he
+would get into a canoe, and let it drift among the reeds, till, in the
+shadow of an old willow-tree, the boat became his study, and the two
+crossed oars his desk. Strange that so bitter and profoundly cynical a
+study of modern Paris life should have been evolved in such
+surroundings, whilst the _Contes de Mon Moulin_, and many other of his
+most ideal _nouvelles_, were written in the sombre grey house where M.
+and Madame Daudet lived during many years of their early married life.
+
+The author of _Les Rois en Exile_ has not yet utilised Champrosay as a
+background to any of his stories; he takes notes, however, of all that
+goes on in the little village community, much as he did in the Duc de
+Morny's splendid palace, and in time his readers may have the pleasure
+of perusing an idyllic yet realistic picture of French country life, an
+outcome of his summer experiences.
+
+Alphonse Daudet was born just fifty-three years ago in the sunlit, white
+_bâtisse_ at Nimes, which he has described in the painful, melancholy
+history of his childhood, entitled _Le Petit Chose_. At an age when
+other French boys are themselves _lycéans_, he became usher in a kind of
+provincial Dotheboys Hall; and some idea of what the sensitive, poetical
+lad went through may be gained by the fact that he more than once
+seriously contemplated committing suicide. But fate had something better
+in store for _le petit Daudet_, and his seventeenth birthday found him
+in Paris sharing his brother Ernest's garret, having arrived in the
+great city with just forty sous remaining of his little store, after
+spending two days and nights in a third-class carriage.
+
+Even now, there is a touch of protection and maternal affection in the
+way in which Ernest Daudet regards his younger brother, and the latter
+never mentions his early struggles without recalling the
+self-abnegation, generous kindliness, and devotion of "_mon frère_." The
+two went through some hard times together. "Ah!" says the great writer,
+speaking of those days, "I thought my brother passing rich, for he
+earned seventy-five francs a month by being secretary to an old
+gentleman at whose dictation he took down his memoirs." And so they
+managed to live, going occasionally to the theatre, and seeing not a
+little of life, on the sum of thirty shillings a month apiece!
+
+When receiving visitors, the author of _Tartarin_ places himself with
+his back to the light on one of the deep, comfortable couches which line
+the fireplace of his study, but from out the huge mass of his powerful
+head, surrounded by the lionese mane, which has become famous in his
+portraits and photographs, gleam two piercing dark eyes, which, like
+those of most short-sighted people, seem to perceive what is immediately
+before them with an extra intensity of vision.
+
+To ask one who has far outrun his fellows what he thinks of the race
+seems a superfluous question. Yet, in answer as to what he would say of
+literature as a profession, M. Daudet gave a startlingly clear and
+decided answer.
+
+[Illustration: THE BILLIARD AND FENCING ROOM.]
+
+"The man who has it in him to write will do so, however great his
+difficulties, but I would never advise any young fellow to make
+literature his profession, and I think it is nothing short of madness to
+give up a good chance of making your livelihood in some other, though
+perhaps less congenial, fashion, in order to pursue the calling of
+letters. You would be surprised if you knew the number of young people
+who come to me for sympathy with their literary aspirations, and as for
+the manuscripts submitted to me, the sending of them back keeps one of
+my friends pretty busy, for of late years I have had to refuse to look
+at anything sent to me in this way. In vain I say to those who come to
+consult me, 'However much occupied you are with your present way of
+earning a livelihood, if you have it in you to write anything you will
+surely find time to do it.' They go away unconvinced, and a few months
+later sees them launched on the perilous seas of journalism; with now
+really not a moment to spare for serious writing! Of course, if the
+would-be writer has already an income, I see no reason why he should not
+give himself up to literature altogether. It was in order to provide a
+certain number of coming geniuses with the wherewithal to find at least
+spare time in which to write possible masterpieces, that my friend
+Edmond de Goncourt and his brother Jules conceived the noble and
+unselfish idea to found an institute, the members of which would require
+but two qualifications, poverty and exceptional literary power. If a
+would-be writer can find someone who will assist him in this manner,
+well and good; but no one is a prophet in his own country, and friends
+and relations are, as a rule, most unwilling to waste good money on
+their young literary acquaintances. Still I admit that the Academie de
+Goncourt would fulfil a want, for there have been, and are, great
+geniuses who positively cannot produce their masterpieces from bitter
+poverty."
+
+"Then do you believe in journalism as a stepping-stone to literature?"
+
+"I cannot say that I do, though, strangely enough, there is scarcely one
+of us--I allude to latter-day French novelists and critics--who did not
+spend at least a portion of his youth doing hard, pot-boiling newspaper
+work. But I deplore the necessity of a novelist having to make
+journalism his start in life, for, as all newspaper writing has to be
+done against time, his style must certainly deteriorate, and his
+literature becomes journalese."
+
+"What was your own first literary essay, M. Daudet?"
+
+"You know I was born a poet, not a novelist; besides, when I was a lad
+everyone wrote poetry, so I made my _débût_ by a book of verse entitled
+_Mes Amoureuses_. I was just eighteen, and this was my first stroke of
+luck; for six weary months I had carried my poor little manuscript from
+publisher to publisher, but, strange to say, I never got further than
+these great people's ante-chamber; at last, a certain Tardieu, a
+publisher who was himself an author, took pity on my _Amoureuses_. The
+title had been a happy inspiration, and the volume received some
+favourable notices, and led indirectly to my getting journalistic work."
+
+Indeed, it seems to have been more or less of an accident that M. Daudet
+did not devote himself entirely to poetry; and probably the very poverty
+which seemed so bitter to him during his youth obliged him to try what
+he could do in the way of story-writing, that branch of literature being
+supposed by the French to be the best from a pecuniary point of view. So
+remarkable were his verses felt to be by the critics of the day, that
+one of them wrote, "When dying, Alfred de Musset left his two pens as a
+last legacy to our literature--Feuillet has taken that of prose; into
+Daudet's hand has slipped that of verse."
+
+But some years passed before the poet-journalist became the novelist; at
+one time he dreamed of being a great dramatist, and before he was
+five-and-twenty several of his plays had been produced at leading Paris
+theatres. Fortune smiled upon him, and he was appointed to be one of the
+Duc de Morny's secretaries, a post he held four years, and which
+supplied him with much valuable material for several of his later
+novels, notably _Les Rois en Exile_, _Le Nabab_, and _Numa Romestan_,
+for during this period he was brought into close and intimate contact
+with all the noteworthy personages of the Third Empire, making at the
+same time the acquaintance of most of the literary lions of the
+day--Flaubert, with whom he became very intimate; Edmond and Jules de
+Goncourt, the two gifted brothers who may be said to have founded the
+realistic school of fiction years before Emile Zola came forward as the
+apostle of realism; Tourguenieff, the two Dumas, and many others who
+welcomed enthusiastically the young Southern poet into their midst.
+
+[Illustration: THE TUILERIES STONE.]
+
+The first page of _Le Petit Chose_ was written in the February of 1866,
+and was finished during the author's honeymoon, but it was with _Fromont
+Jeune et Risler Ainé_, published six years later, that he made his first
+real success as a novelist, the work being crowned by the French
+Academy, and arousing a veritable enthusiasm both at home and abroad.
+
+Alphonse Daudet is not a quick worker; he often allows several years to
+elapse between his novels, and refuses to bind himself down to any
+especial date. _Tartarin de Tarascon_ was, however, an exception to this
+rule, for the author wrote it for Messrs. Guillaume, the well-known art
+publishers, who, wishing to popularise an improved style of
+illustration, offered M. Daudet 150,000 francs (£6,000) to write them a
+serio-comic story. _Tartarin_, which obtained an instant popularity,
+proved the author's versatility, but won him the hatred of the good
+people of Provence, who have never forgiven him for having made fun of
+their foibles. On one occasion a bagman, passing through Tarascon, put,
+by way of a jest, the name "Alphonse Daudet" in his hotel register. The
+news quickly spread, and had it not been for the prompt help of the
+innkeeper, who managed to smuggle him out of the town, he might easily
+have had cause to regret his foolish joke.
+
+Judging by sales, _Sapho_ has been the most popular of Daudet's novels,
+for over a quarter of a million copies have been sold. Like most of his
+stories, its appearance provoked a great deal of discussion, as did the
+author's dedication "To my two sons at the age of twenty." But, in
+answer to his critics, Daudet always replies, "I wrote the book with a
+purpose, and I have succeeded in painting the picture as I wished it to
+appear. Each of the types mentioned by me really existed; each incident
+was copied from life...."
+
+The year following its publication M. Daudet dramatised _Sapho_, and the
+play was acted with considerable success at the Gymnase, Jane Hading
+being in the _title-rôle_. Last year the play was again acted in Paris,
+with Madame Rejane as the heroine.
+
+[Illustration: DAUDET'S YOUNGER SON.]
+
+M. Daudet, like most novelists, takes a special interest in all that
+concerns dramatic art and the theatre. When his health permits it he is
+a persistent first-nighter, and most of his novels lend themselves in a
+rare degree to stage adaptation.
+
+I once asked him what he thought of the attempts now so frequently made
+to introduce unconventionality and naked realism on the stage.
+
+"I have every sympathy," he replied, "with the attempts made by Antoine
+and his Thêatre Libre to discover strong and unconventional work. But I
+do not believe in the new terms which a certain school have invented for
+everything; after all, the play's the thing, whether it is produced by a
+group who dub themselves romantics, realists, old or new style. Realism
+is not necessarily real life; a photograph only gives a rigid, neutral
+side of the object placed in front of the camera. A dissection of what
+we call affection does not give so vivid an impression of the
+master-passion as a true love-sonnet written by a poet. Life is a thing
+of infinite gradations; a dramatist wishes to show existence as it
+really is, not as it may be under exceptionally revolting
+circumstances."
+
+His own favourite dramatist and writer is Shakespeare, whom, however, he
+only knows by translation, and _Hamlet_ and _Desdemona_ are his
+favourite hero and heroine in the fiction of the world, although he
+considered Balzac his literary master.
+
+M. Daudet will seldom be beguiled into talking on politics. Like all
+Frenchmen, the late Panama scandals have profoundly shocked and
+disgusted him, as revealing a state of things discreditable to the
+Government of his country. But the creator of Désirée Dolobelle has a
+profound belief in human nature, and believes that, come what may, the
+novelist will never lack beautiful and touching models in the world
+round and about him.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+_The Dismal Throng._
+
+BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEO. HUTCHINSON.
+
+(_Written after reading the last Study in Literary Distemper._)
+
+                 -----
+
+    The Fairy Tale of Life is done,
+      The horns of Fairyland cease blowing,
+    The Gods have left us one by one,
+      And the last Poets, too, are going!
+    Ended is all the mirth and song,
+      Fled are the merry Music-makers;
+    And what remains? The Dismal Throng
+      Of literary Undertakers!
+
+[Illustration: THOMAS HARDY.]
+
+    Clad in deep black of funeral cut,
+      With faces of forlorn expression,
+    Their eyes half open, souls close shut,
+      They stalk along in pale procession;
+    The latest seed of Schopenhauer,
+      Born of a Trull of Flaubert's choosing,
+    They cry, while on the ground they glower,
+      "There's nothing in the world amusing!"
+
+[Illustration: ZOLA.]
+
+    There's Zola, grimy as his theme,
+      Nosing the sewers with cynic pleasure,
+    Sceptic of all that poets dream,
+      All hopes that simple mortals treasure;
+    With sense most keen for odours strong,
+      He stirs the Drains and scents disaster,
+    Grim monarch of the Dismal Throng
+      Who bow their heads before "the Master."
+
+    There's Miss Matilda[1] in the south,
+        There's Valdes[2] in Madrid and Seville,
+            There's mad Verlaine[3] with gangrened mouth.
+                Grinning at Rimbaud and the Devil.
+    From every nation of the earth,
+        Instead of smiling merry-makers,
+            They come, the foes of Love and Mirth,
+                The Dismal Throng of Undertakers.
+
+[Illustration: TOLSTOI.]
+
+    There's Tolstoi, towering in his place
+      O'er all the rest by head and shoulders;
+    No sunshine on that noble face
+      Which Nature meant to charm beholders!
+    Mad with his self-made martyr's shirt,
+      Obscene, through hatred of obsceneness,
+    He from a pulpit built of Dirt
+      Shrieks his Apocalypse of Cleanness!
+
+[Illustration: IBSEN.]
+
+    There's Ibsen,[4] puckering up his lips,
+      Squirming at Nature and Society,
+    Drawing with tingling finger-tips
+      The clothes off naked Impropriety!
+    So nice, so nasty, and so grim,
+      He hugs his gloomy bottled thunder;
+    To summon up one smile from _him_
+      Would be a miracle of wonder!
+
+[Illustration: PIERRE LOTI.]
+
+    There's Maupassant,[5] who takes his cue
+      From Dame Bovary's bourgeois troubles;
+    There's Bourget, dyed his own sick "blue,"
+      There's Loti, blowing blue soap bubbles;
+    There's Mendès[6] (no Catullus, he!)
+      There's Richepin,[7] sick with sensual passion.
+    The Dismal Throng! So foul, so free,
+      Yet sombre all, as is the fashion.
+
+    "Turn down the lights! put out the Sun!
+        Man is unclean and morals muddy.
+            The Fairy Tale of Life is done,
+                Disease and Dirt must be our study!
+    Tear open Nature's genial heart,
+        Let neither God nor gods escape us,
+            But spare, to give our subjects zest,
+                The basest god of all--Priapus!"
+
+    The Dismal Throng! 'Tis thus they preach,
+        From Christiania to Cadiz,
+            Recruited as they talk and teach
+                By dingy lads and draggled ladies;
+    Without a sunbeam or a song,
+        With no clear Heaven to hunger after;
+            The Dismal Throng! the Dismal Throng!
+                The foes of Life and Love and Laughter!
+
+    By Shakespere's Soul! if this goes on,
+        From every face of man and woman
+            The gift of gladness will be gone,
+                And laughter will be thought inhuman!
+    The only beast who smiles is Man!
+        _That_ marks him out from meaner creatures!
+            Confound the Dismal Throng, who plan
+                To take God's birth-mark from our features!
+
+    Manfreds who walk the hospitals.
+        Laras and Giaours grown scientific,
+            They wear the clothes and bear the palls
+                Of Stormy Ones once thought terrific;
+    They play the same old funeral tune,
+        And posture with the same dejection,
+            But turn from howling at the moon
+                To literary vivisection!
+
+[Illustration: OSCAR WILDE.]
+
+    And while they loom before our view,
+      Dark'ning the air that should be sunny,
+    Here's Oscar,[8] growing dismal too,
+      Our Oscar, who was once so funny!
+    Blue china ceases to delight
+      The dear curl'd darling of society,
+    Changed are his breeches, once so bright,
+      For foreign breaches of propriety!
+
+[Illustration: GEORGE MOORE.]
+
+    I like my Oscar, tolerate
+      My Archer[9] of the Dauntless Grammar,
+    Nay, e'en my Moore[10] I estimate
+      Not too unkindly, 'spite his clamour;
+    But I prefer my roses still
+      To all the garlic in their garden--
+    Let Hedda gabble as she will,
+      I'll stay with Rosalind, in Arden!
+
+    O for one laugh of Rabelais,
+        To rout these moralising croakers!
+            (The cowls were mightier far than they,
+                Yet fled before that King of Jokers)
+    O for a slash of Fielding's pen
+        To bleed these pimps of Melancholy!
+            O for a Boz, born once again
+                To play the Dickens with such folly!
+
+[Illustration: MARK TWAIN.]
+
+    Yet stay! why bid the dead arise?
+      Why call them back from Charon's wherry?
+    Come, Yankee Mark, with twinkling eyes,
+      Confuse these ghouls with something merry!
+    Come, Kipling, with thy soldiers three,
+      Thy barrack-ladies frail and fervent,
+    Forsake thy themes of butchery
+      And be the merry Muses' servant!
+
+    Come, Dickens' foster-son, Bret Harte!
+        Come, Sims, though gigmen flout thy labours!
+            Tom Hardy, blow the clouds apart
+                With sound of rustic fifes and tabors!
+    Dick Blackmore, full of homely joy,
+        Come from thy garden by the river,
+            And pelt with fruit and flowers, old boy,
+                These dismal bores who drone for ever!
+
+[Illustration: GEORGE MEREDITH.]
+
+    Come, too, George Meredith, whose eyes,
+      Though oft with vapours shadow'd over,
+    Can catch the sunlight from the skies
+      And flash it down on lass and lover;
+    Tell us of Life, and Love's young dream,
+      Show the prismatic soul of Woman,
+    Bring back the Light, whose morning beam
+      First made the Beast upright and human!
+
+    You _can_ be merry, George, I vow!
+        Wit through your cloudiest prosing twinkles!
+            Brood as you may, upon your brow
+                The cynic, Art, has left no wrinkles!
+    For you're a poet to the core,
+        No ghouls can from the Muses win you;
+            So throw your cap i' the air once more,
+                And show the joy of earth that's in you!
+
+    By Heaven! we want you one and all,
+      For Hypochondria is reigning--
+    The Mater Dolorosa's squall
+      Makes Nature hideous with complaining!
+    Ah! who will paint the Face that smiled
+      When Art was virginal and vernal--
+    The pure Madonna with her Child,
+      Pure as the light, and as eternal!
+
+    Pest on these dreary, dolent airs!
+      Confound these funeral pomps and poses!
+    Is Life Dyspepsia's and Despair's,
+      And Love's complexion all _chlorosis_?
+    A lie! There's Health, and Mirth, and Song,
+      The World still laughs, and goes a-Maying--
+    The dismal, droning, doleful Throng
+      Are only smuts in sunshine playing!
+
+    Play up, ye horns of Fairyland!
+      Shine out, O sun, and planets seven!
+    Beyond these clouds a beckoning Hand
+      Gleams from the lattices of Heaven!
+    The World's alive--still quick, not dead,
+      It needs no Undertaker's warning;
+    So put the Dismal Throng to bed,
+      And wake once more to Light and Morning!
+
+              *       *       *
+
+  [1] Mathilde Serao, an Italian novelist.
+
+  [2] A Spanish novelist.
+
+  [3] Verlaine and Rimbaud, two poets of the Parisian Decadence.
+
+  [4] A Norwegian playwright.
+
+  [5] Guy de Maupassant, Paul Bourget, and Pierre Loti, novelists of the
+  Decadence.
+
+  [6] Catulle Mendès, a Parisian poet and novelist.
+
+  [7] Jean Richepin, ditto.
+
+  [8] Mr. Oscar Wilde.
+
+  [9] Mr. William Archer, a newspaper critic.
+
+  [10] Mr. George Moore, an author and newspaper critic.
+
+
+     NOTE.--These verses refer to a literary phenomenon that will in
+     time become historical, that phenomenon being the sudden growth, in
+     all parts of Europe, of a fungus-literature bred of Foulness and
+     Decay; and contemporaneously, the intrusion into all parts of human
+     life of a Calvinistic yet materialistic Morality. This literature
+     of a sunless Decadence has spread widely, by virtue of its own
+     uncleanness, and its leading characteristics are gloom, ugliness,
+     prurience, preachiness, and weedy flabbiness of style. That it has
+     not flourished in Great Britain, save among a small and discredited
+     Cockney minority, is due to the inherent manliness and vigour of
+     the national character. The land of Shakespere, Scott, Burns,
+     Fielding, Dickens, and Charles Reade is protected against literary
+     miasmas by the strength of its humour and the sunniness of its
+     temperament.--R.B.
+
+
+
+
+_In the Hands of Jefferson._
+
+BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY RONALD GRAY.
+
+           -----
+
+It is not difficult to appreciate the recent catastrophe in Oceania,
+where the island of Great Sangir was partially smothered by terrific
+volcanic and seismic convulsions, when one has visited the Western
+Indies.
+
+[Illustration: "WHERE LORD NELSON ENJOYED HIS HONEYMOON."]
+
+Many of these tropic isles probably owe their present isolation, if not
+their actual existence, to mighty earthquake throes in remote ages of
+terrestrial history beyond the memory of man. But man's memory is not a
+very extensive affair, and at best probes the past to the extent of a
+mere rind of a few thousand years. For the rest he has to read the word
+of God, written in fossil and stone and those wondrous arcana of Nature,
+which, each in turn, yields a fragment of the secret of truth to human
+intellect.
+
+Regions that have been produced or largely modified by earthquake and
+volcanic upheaval may, probably enough, vanish at any moment under like
+conditions; and the island of Nevis, hard by St. Christopher, in the
+West Indies, strongly suggests a possibility of such disaster. It has
+always been the regular rendezvous of hurricanes and earthquakes, and it
+consists practically of one vast volcanic mountain which rises abruptly
+from the sea and pushes its densely-wooded sides three thousand two
+hundred feet into the sky. The crater shows no particularly active
+inclination at present, but it is doubtless wide awake and merely
+resting, like its volcanic neighbour in St. Christopher, where the
+breathing of the dormant giant can be noted through rent and rift. The
+Fourth Officer of our steamship "Rhine" assured me, as we approached the
+lofty dome of Nevis and gazed upon its fertile acclivities and fringe of
+palms, that it would never surprise him upon his rounds to find the
+place had altogether disappeared under the Caribbean Sea. He added,
+according to his custom, an allusion to Columbus, and explained also
+that, in the dead and gone days of Slave Traffic, Nevis was a much more
+important spot than it is ever likely to become again. Then, indeed, the
+island enjoyed no little prosperity and importance, being a head centre
+and mart for the industry in negroes. Emancipation, however, wrecked
+Nevis, together with a good many other of the Antilles.
+
+At Montpelier, on this island, Lord Nelson enjoyed his honeymoon, but
+now only a few trees and a little ruined masonry at the corner of a
+sugar-cane plantation appear to mark the spot. Further, it may be
+recorded, as a point in favour of the place, that it grows very
+exceptional Tangerine oranges. These, to taste in perfection, should be
+eaten at the turning point, before their skins grow yellow. We cannot
+judge of the noble possibilities in an orange at home. I brought back a
+dozen of these Nevis Tangerines with me, but I secretly suspected that,
+in spite of their fine reputation, quite inferior sorts would be able to
+beat them by the time they got to England; and it was so.
+
+We stopped half-an-hour only at Charlestown, Nevis, and then proceeded
+to St. Christopher, a sister isle of greater size and scope.
+
+At Antigua, there came aboard the "Rhine" a young man who implicitly
+leads us to understand that he is the most important person in the West
+Indies. He is the Governor of Antigua's own clerk, and is going to St.
+Christopher with a portmanteau, some walking-sticks, and a despatch-box.
+It appears that his significance is gigantic, and that, though the
+nominal seat of government lies at Antigua, yet the real active centre
+of political administration may be found immediately under the Panama
+hat of the Governor's own clerk. This he takes the trouble to explain
+to us. The Governor himself is a puppet, his trusted men of resource and
+portfolio-holders are the veriest fantoccini; for the Governor's own
+clerk pulls the strings, frames the foreign policy, conducts, controls,
+adjusts difficulties, and maintains a right balance between the parties.
+This he condescends to make clear to us.
+
+[Illustration: "THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN THE WEST INDIES."]
+
+I ventured to ask him how many of the more important nations were
+involved with the matters at present in his despatch-box; and he said
+lightly, as though the concern in hand was a mere bagatelle, that only
+the United States, Great Britain and Germany were occupying his
+attention at the moment.
+
+The Model Man said:
+
+"I suppose you'll soon knock off a flea-bite like that?"
+
+And the Governor's own clerk answered:
+
+"Yes, I fancy so, unless any unforeseen hitch happens. Negotiations are
+pending."
+
+I liked his last sentence particularly. It smacked so strongly of miles
+of red tape and months of official delay.
+
+When we reached St. Christopher, it was currently reported that the
+Governor's own clerk had simply come to settle a dispute between two
+negro landowners concerning a fragment of the island rather smaller than
+a table-napkin; but personally I doubt not this was a blind, under cover
+of which he secretly pushed forward those pending negotiations. He
+certainly had fine diplomatic instincts, and a sound view, from a
+political standpoint, of the value of veracity.
+
+When we cast out anchor off Basseterre, St. Christopher, the Treasure
+hurried to me in some sorrow. He had proposed going ashore, with his
+Enchantress and her mother, to show them the sights, but now, to his
+dismay, he found that unforeseen official duties would keep him on the
+ship during our brief sojourn here. With anxiety almost pathetic,
+therefore, he entrusted the Enchantress to me, and commended her mother
+to the Doctor's care. I felt the compliment, and assured him that I
+would simply devote myself to her--platonically withal; but the Doctor
+was not quite so hearty about her mother. However, he must behave like
+a gentleman, whether he felt inclined to do so or not, which the
+Treasure knew, and, therefore, felt safe.
+
+Our party of four started straightway for a ramble in St. Kitts (as St.
+Christopher is more generally called), and, upon landing, we were
+happily met by a middle-aged negro, who had evidently watched our boat
+from afar. He tumbled off a pile of planks, where he had been basking in
+the sun, girt his indifferent raiment about him, and then, by sheer
+force of character, took complete command of our contemplated
+expedition. It may have been hypnotism, or some kindred mystery, but we
+were unresisting children in his hands. He said: "Follow me, gem'men: me
+show you ebb'ryting for nuffing: de 'tanical Garns, de prison-house, de
+public buildings, de church, an' all. Dis way, dis way, ladies. Don't
+listen to dem niggers; dey nobody on dis island."
+
+[Illustration: "'FOLLOW ME, GEM'MEN!'"]
+
+The Doctor alone fought feebly, but it was useless, and, in two minutes,
+our masterful Ethiop had led us all away to see the sights.
+
+"What's your name?" I asked.
+
+"Jefferson, sar; ebb'rybody know Jefferson. Fus', we go to 'tanical
+Garns. Here dey is."
+
+The Botanical Gardens of Basseterre, St. Kitts, were handsome,
+extensive, and well cared for. We wandered with pleasure down broad
+walks, shaded by cabbage palms and palmettos, mahogany and tamarind
+trees; we admired the fountain and varied foliage and blazing
+flower-beds, streaked and splashed with many brilliant blossoms and
+bright-leaved crotons.
+
+"There," said the mother of the Enchantress, pointing to a handsome
+lily, "is a specimen of Crinum Asiaticum."
+
+The Doctor started as though she had used a bad word. He hates a woman
+to know anything he does not, and this botanical display irritated him;
+but our attention was instantly distracted by Jefferson, who, upon
+hearing the lily admired, walked straight up to it and picked it.
+
+[Illustration: "'THERE IS A SPECIMEN OF CRINUM ASIATICUM.'"]
+
+I expostulated. I said:
+
+"You mustn't go plucking curiosities here, Jefferson, or you will get us
+all into hot water."
+
+"Dat's right, massa," he replied. "Me an' de boss garner great ole
+frens. De ladies jus' say what dey like, an' Jefferson pick him off for
+dem."
+
+He was as good as his word, and a fine theatrical display followed, as
+our party grew gradually bolder and bolder, and our guide, evidently
+upon his mettle, complied with each request in turn.
+
+I will cast a fragment of the dialogue and action in dramatic form, so
+that you may the better judge of and picture that wild scene.
+
+THE ENCHANTRESS (_timidly_): Should you think we might have this tiny
+flower?
+
+JEFFERSON: I pick him, missy. (_Does so._)
+
+THE DOCTOR: I wonder if they'd miss one of those red things? They've got
+a good number. I believe they're medicinal. Should you think----?
+
+(_Jefferson picks two of the flowers in question. The Doctor takes
+heart._)
+
+[Illustration: "'MIGHT WE HAVE THAT?'"]
+
+THE MOTHER OF THE ENCHANTRESS: Dear me! Here's a singularly fine
+specimen of the Somethingiensis. I wonder if you----?
+
+(_Jefferson picks it._)
+
+THE DOCTOR: We might have that big affair there, hidden away behind
+those orange trees. Nobody will miss it. I should rather like it for my
+own.
+
+(_Jefferson wrestles with this concern, and the Doctor lends him a
+knife._)
+
+THE ENCHANTRESS: Oh, there's a sweet, sweet blossom! Might we have that,
+and that bud, and that bunch of leaves next to them, Monsieur Jefferson?
+
+(_Jefferson, evidently feeling he is in for a hard morning's work, makes
+further onslaught upon the flora, and drags down three parts of an
+entire tree._)
+
+THE MOTHER OF THE ENCHANTRESS: When you're done there, I will ask you to
+go into this fountain for one of those blue water-lilies.
+
+(_Jefferson, getting rather sick of it, pretends he does not hear._)
+
+THE DOCTOR (_speaking in loud tones which Jefferson cannot ignore_):
+Pick that, please, and that, and those things half-way up that tree.
+
+(_Jefferson begins to grow very hot and uneasy. He peeps about
+nervously, probably with a view to dodging his old friend, the head
+gardener._)
+
+THE CHRONICLER (_feeling that his party is disgracing itself, and
+desiring to reprove them in a parable_): I say, Jefferson, could you cut
+down that palm--the biggest of those two--and have it sent along to the
+ship? If the head gardener is here, he might help you.
+
+JEFFERSON (_losing his temper, missing the parable, and turning upon the
+Chronicler_): No, sar! You no hab no more. I'se dam near pulled off
+ebb'ryting in de 'tanical Garns, an' I'se goin' right away now 'fore
+anyfing's said!
+
+(_Exit Jefferson rapidly, trying to conceal a mass of foliage under his
+ragged coat. The party follows him in single file._)
+
+                           [_Curtain._]
+
+[Illustration: "'I'SE PULLED OFF EBB'RYTING IN THE 'TANICAL GARNS.'"]
+
+I doubt not that, had we met the head gardener just then, our guide
+would have lost a friend.
+
+Henceforth, evidently feeling we were not wholly responsible in this
+foreign atmosphere of wonders, Jefferson stuck to the streets, and took
+us to churches and shops and other places where we had to control
+ourselves and leave things alone.
+
+On the way to a photographer's he cooled down and became instructive
+again. He told us the name and address and bad actions of every white
+person we met. Society at St. Kitts, from his point of view, appeared to
+be in an utterly rotten condition. The most reputable clique was his
+own. We met several of his personal friends. They were generally brown
+or yellow, and he assured us that he had white blood in him too--a fact
+we could not possibly have guessed. Presently he grew confidential, and
+told us that his eldest son was a source of great discomfort to him. At
+the age of fifteen Jefferson Junior had run away from home and left St.
+Kitts to better himself at Barbados. Five years afterwards, however,
+when he had almost passed out of his parents' memory, so Jefferson
+declared, the young man returned, sick and penniless, to the home of his
+birth. I said here:
+
+"This is the Prodigal Son story over again, Jefferson. Did you kill the
+fatted calf, I wonder, and make much of the lad?"
+
+"No, sar," he answered; "didn't kill no fatted nuffing, but I precious
+near kill de podigal son."
+
+Concerning St. Christopher, we have direct authority, from the immortal
+and ubiquitous Columbus himself, that it is an island of exceptional
+advantages; for, delighted with its aspect in 1493, he bestowed his own
+name upon it. Indeed, the place has a beautiful and imposing appearance.
+Dark green forests and emerald tracts of sugar-cane now clothe its
+plains and hills; and Mount Misery, the loftiest peak, rises to a height
+of over four thousand feet. Caribs were the original inhabitants and
+possessors of St. Kitts, but when England and France agreed to divide
+this island between them in 1627, we find the local anthropophagi left
+out in the cold as usual. After bickering for about sixty years, the
+French enjoyed a temporary success, and slew their British brother
+colonists pretty generally. Then Fortune's wheel took a turn, and under
+the Peace of Utrecht, in 1713, St. Kitts became our property from strand
+to mountain-top.
+
+[Illustration: "VOLCANIC INDICATIONS."]
+
+There is only one road in this island, I am told, but that is thirty
+miles long, and extends all round the place. Volcanic indications occur
+freely on Mount Misery, and, as at Nevis, so here, the entire community
+may, some day, find itself very uncomfortably situated. A feature of St.
+Kitts is said to be monkeys, which occur in the woods. These, however,
+like the deer at Tobago, are more frequently heard of than seen. People
+were rather alarmed here, during our flying visit, by a form of
+influenza which settled upon the town of Basseterre; but we, who had
+only lately come from England, and were familiar with the revolting
+lengths to which this malady will go in cold climes, reassured them, and
+laughed their puny tropical species to scorn. Finally, of St. Kitts, I
+would say: From information received in the first case, and from
+personal experience in the second, that there you shall find sugar
+culture in most approved and advanced perfection, and purchase
+walking-sticks of bewildering variety and beauty.
+
+[Illustration: "THE DOCTOR GREW DELIGHTED."]
+
+The ladies of our party decreed they had no wish to visit the gaol--a
+decision on their part which annoyed Jefferson considerably. He
+explained that the St. Kitts prison-house was, perhaps, better worth
+seeing than anything on the island; he also added that a book was kept
+there in which we should be invited to write our names and make remarks.
+They were proof, however, against even this inducement; and, having seen
+the church--a very English building, with homely little square tower--we
+left our Enchantress and her parent at the photographer's, to make such
+purchases as seemed good to them, and await our return.
+
+In this picture-shop, by the way, the Doctor grew almost boisterously
+delighted over a deplorable representation of negro lepers. Young and
+old, male and female, halt and maimed, the poor sufferers had been
+photographed in a long row; and my brother secured the entire panorama
+of them and whined for more. These lamentable representations of lepers
+gave him keener pleasure than anything he had seen since we left the
+Trinidad Hospital. In future, when we reached a new port, he would
+always hurry off to photographers' shops, where they existed, and simply
+clamour for lepers.
+
+I asked Jefferson, as we proceeded to the prison, whether he thought we
+should be allowed to peer about among the inner secrets of the place,
+and he answered: "You see ebb'ryting, sar; de head p'liceman great ole
+fren' of mine."
+
+My brother said:
+
+"You seem to know all the best people in St. Kitts, Jefferson."
+
+And he admitted that it was so. He replied:
+
+"Jefferson 'quainted wid ebb'rybody, an' ebb'rybody 'quainted wid
+Jefferson."
+
+Which put his position in a nutshell.
+
+The prison was not very impressive viewed from outside, being but a mere
+mean black and white building, with outer walls which experienced
+criminals at home would have smiled at. We rang a noisy bell, and were
+allowed to enter upon the demand of Jefferson.
+
+Four sinners immediately met our gaze. They sat pensively breaking
+stones in a wide courtyard. A building, with barred windows, threw black
+shade upon the blazing white ground of this open space; and here,
+shielded from the sun, the convicts reclined and made a show of work.
+Jefferson, with rather a lack of delicate feeling, drew up before this
+little stone-breaking party and beamed upon it. The Doctor and I walked
+past and tried to look as though we saw nobody, but our guide did not
+choose that we should miss the most interesting thing in the place thus.
+
+"Look har, gem'men; see dese prisoners breakin' stones."
+
+"All right, all right," answered my brother; "push on; don't stand
+staring there. We haven't come to gloat over those poor devils."
+
+But I really think the culprits were as disappointed as Jefferson. They
+evidently felt that they were the most important part of the entire
+spectacle, and rather resented being passed over.
+
+"You won't see no more prisoners, if you don't look at dese, sar,"
+answered Jefferson. "Dar's only terrible few convics in de gaol jus'
+now."
+
+"So much the better," answered the unsympathetic Doctor.
+
+It certainly appeared to be a most lonely and languishing place of
+incarceration. We inspected the cells, and observed in one of them a
+peculiar handle fastened against the wall. This proved to be a West
+Indian substitute for the treadmill. The turning of the handle can be
+made easy or difficult by an arrangement of screws without the cell. The
+affair is set for a certain number of revolutions, and a warder
+explained to us that where hard labour has been meted to a prisoner, he
+spends long, weary hours struggling with this apparatus and earning his
+meals. When the necessary number of turns are completed, a bell rings,
+and one can easily picture the relief in many an erring black man's
+heart upon the sound of it. At another corner of the courtyard was piled
+a great heap of cannon-balls. These were used for shot-drill--an arduous
+form of exercise calculated to tame the wildest spirit and break the
+strongest back. The whitewashed cells were wonderfully clean and
+wholesome--more so, in fact, than most public apartments I saw elsewhere
+in the West Indies. This effect may be produced in some measure by the
+absolute lack of household goods and utensils, pictures or
+_bric-à-brac_. In fact, the only piece of furniture I could find
+anywhere was a massive wooden tripod, used for flogging prisoners upon.
+
+[Illustration: "A CHAT WITH THE SUPERINTENDENT."]
+
+Then we went in to have a chat with the Superintendent. He was rather
+nervous and downcast, and apparently feared that we had formed a poor
+opinion of his gaol. He apologised quite humbly for the paucity of
+prisoners, and explained that times were bad, and there was little or
+nothing doing in the criminal world of St. Kitts. He really did not know
+what had come to the place lately. He perfectly remembered, in the good
+old days, having had above fifty prisoners at a time in his hands. Why,
+blacks had been hung there before now. But of late days business grew to
+be a mere farce. If anybody did do anything of a capitally criminal
+nature at St. Kitts, during the next twenty years or so, he very much
+doubted if the authorities would permit him to carry the affair
+through. His opinion was that an assassin would be taken away altogether
+and bestowed upon Antigua. I asked him how he accounted for such a
+stagnation in crime, and he answered, rather bitterly, that the churches
+and chapels and Moravian missions had to be thanked for it. There were
+far too many of them. Ordinary human instincts were frustrated at every
+turn. Little paltry sects of nobodies filled their tin meeting-houses
+Sunday after Sunday, and yet an important Government institution, like
+the gaol, remained practically empty. He could not understand it. At the
+rate things were going, it would be necessary to shut his prison up
+altogether in a year's time. Certainly, one of his present charges--a
+man he felt proud of in every way--was sentenced to penal servitude for
+life, and had only lately made a determined attempt to escape. But he
+could hardly expect the Government to keep up an entire gaol, with
+warders and a Superintendent and everything, for one man, however wicked
+he might be. I tried to cheer him up, and spoke hopefully about the
+natural depravity of everything human. I said:
+
+[Illustration: "FILLED HALF A PAGE WITH COMPLIMENTARY CRITICISM."]
+
+"You must look forward. The Powers of Evil are by no means played out
+yet. Black sheep occur in every fold. After periods of drought, seasons
+of great plenty frequently ensue. There should be magnificent raw
+material in this island, which will presently mature and keep you as
+busy as a bee."
+
+"Dar's my son, too," said Jefferson, encouragingly; "I'se pretty sure
+you hab him 'fore long."
+
+Then the man grew slightly more sanguine, and asked if we should care to
+sign his book, and make a few remarks in it before departing.
+
+"Of course I know it's only a small prison at best," he said,
+deferentially.
+
+"As to that," answered the Doctor, speaking for himself, "I have
+certainly been in a great many bigger ones, but never in any house of
+detention better conducted and cleaner kept than yours. You deserve
+more ample recognition. I should judge you to be a man second to none in
+your management of malefactors. For my part, I will assuredly write this
+much in your book."
+
+The volume was produced, and my brother sat down and expatiated about
+the charms and advantages of St. Kitts prison-house. He filled half a
+page with complimentary and irresponsible criticism; then he handed the
+book to me. The Superintendent said that he should take it as
+particularly kind if, in my remarks, I would insert a good word for the
+drainage system. Advised by the Doctor that I might do so with truth and
+justice, I wrote as follows:
+
+[Illustration: "SALUTING HIS MANY FRIENDS."]
+
+"A remarkably clean, ably-managed, and well-ordered establishment, with
+an admirable staff of officials, a gratifying scarcity of evil-doers,
+and particularly happy sanitary arrangements."
+
+Then we went off to rejoin the Enchantress and her mother, and see
+further sights during the brief time which now remained at our disposal.
+The ladies had completed their purchases, and with them we now traversed
+extended portions of the town, and visited a negro colony, where
+thatched roofs peeped out from among tattered plantain leaves, and
+rustic cottages hid in the shade of tamarind and orange, lime and
+cocoanut. The lazy folks lounged about, chewing sugar-cane and munching
+bananas, according to their pleasant custom. The men chattered, and the
+women prattled and played with their yellow and ebony babies. One saw no
+ambition, no proper pride, no obtrusive morality anywhere. Jefferson
+appeared to be a personage in these parts. He marched along saluting his
+many friends and smoking a cigar which the Doctor had given him. He
+stopped occasionally to crack a joke or offer advice; and when we came
+to any negro or negress whose history embraced a matter of interest,
+Jefferson would stop and lecture upon the subject, while he or she stood
+and grinned and admitted his remarks were unquestionably true. As a
+rule, instead of grinning, they ought to have wept, for Jefferson's
+anecdotes and scraps of private scandals led me to fear that about
+ninety-nine in a hundred of his cronies ought to be under lock and key,
+in spite of what the prison authorities had told us.
+
+Then we came down through a slum and found ourselves by the sea, upon a
+long, level beach of dark sand. The pier stood half-a-mile ahead, and we
+now determined to proceed without further delay to the boats, return to
+the "Rhine," and safely bestow our curiosities before she sailed.
+Apprised of this intention, Jefferson prepared to take leave of our
+party. He assured me that it had given him very considerable pleasure to
+thus devote his morning hours to our service. He trusted that we were
+satisfied with his efforts, and hinted that, though he should not dream
+of levying any formal charge, yet some trifling and negotiable memento
+of us would not be misunderstood or give him the least offence. We
+rewarded him adequately, thanked him much for all his trouble, and hoped
+that, when next we visited St. Kitts, his cheerful face might be the
+first to meet us. He answered:
+
+"Please God, gem'men, I be at de pier-head when next you come 'long.
+Anyhow, you ask for Jefferson." Then, blessing us without stint, he
+departed.
+
+And here I am reluctantly compelled to reprove the white and
+tawny-coloured inhabitants of St. Kitts for a breach of good manners.
+Boat-loads of gentlemen from shore crowded the "Rhine," like locusts,
+during her short stay at this island. They inundated the saloon bar,
+scrambled for seats at the luncheon-table, and showed a wild eagerness
+to eat and drink for nothing, which was most unseemly. One would have
+imagined that these worthy folks only enjoyed a hearty meal upon the
+occasional visits of a steamer; for after they had done with us they all
+rowed off to a neighbouring vessel, and boarded her in like manner,
+swarming up her sides to see what they could devour. That the
+intelligent male population of an island should come off to the ships,
+and chat with acquaintances and hear the latest news and enlarge its
+mind, is rational enough; but that it should organise greedy raids upon
+the provisions, and get in the way of the crew and passengers, and eat
+up refreshments which it is not justified in even approaching, appears
+to me unrefined, if not absolutely vulgar.
+
+Leprosy and gluttony are the prevailing disorders at St. Kitts. The
+first is, unfortunately, incurable, but the second might easily be
+remedied, and should be. All that the white inhabitants need is a shade
+more self-control in the matter of other people's food, then they will
+be equal to the best of their brothers at home or abroad.
+
+That afternoon the subject of influenza formed a principal theme in the
+smoking-room of the "Rhine." Our Fourth Officer said:
+
+"Probably I am better qualified to discuss it than any of you men; for,
+two years ago, I had a most violent attack of Russian influenza _in_
+Russia. Mere English, suburban influenza is child's-play by comparison.
+I suffered at Odessa on the Black Sea, and my temperature went up to
+just under two hundred, and I singed the bed-clothes. A friend of mine,
+an old shipmate, had it at the same place; and his temperature went
+considerably over two hundred, and he set his bed-clothes on fire and
+was burnt to death, being too weak to escape."
+
+This reminiscence would seem to show that our Fourth Officer has at last
+exhausted his supplies of facts, and will now no doubt fall back on
+reserves of fiction; which, judged from this sample, are probably very
+extensive. Though few mariners turn novelists, yet it is significant, as
+showing the great bond of union between seafaring life and pure
+imagination, that those who have done so can point to most gratifying
+results.
+
+[Illustration: "'PROBABLY I AM BETTER QUALIFIED TO DISCUSS IT THAN ANY
+OF YOU.'"]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: I. ZANGWILL.]
+
+_My First Book._
+
+BY I. ZANGWILL.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEO. HUTCHINSON.
+
+            -----
+
+As it is scarcely two years since my name (which, I hear, is a _nom de
+plume_) appeared in print on the cover of a book, I may be suspected of
+professional humour when I say I really do not know which was my first
+book. Yet such is the fact. My literary career has been so queer that I
+find it not easy to write my autobibliography.
+
+"What is a pound?" asked Sir Robert Peel in an interrogative mood futile
+as Pilate's. "What is a book?" I ask, and the dictionary answers with
+its usual dogmatic air, "A collection of sheets of paper, or similar
+material, blank, written, or printed, bound together." At this rate my
+first book would be that romance of school life in two volumes, which,
+written in a couple of exercise books, circulated gratuitously in the
+schoolroom, and pleased our youthful imaginations with teacher-baiting
+tricks we had not the pluck to carry out in the actual. I shall always
+remember this story because, after making the tour of the class, it was
+returned to me with thanks and a new first page from which all my graces
+of style had evaporated. Indignant enquiry discovered the criminal--he
+admitted he had lost the page, and had rewritten it from memory. He
+pleaded that it was better written (which in one sense was true), and
+that none of the facts had been omitted.
+
+This ill-treated tale was "published" when I was ten, but an old
+schoolfellow recently wrote to me reminding me of an earlier novel
+written in an old account book. Of this I have no recollection, but, as
+he says he wrote it day by day at my dictation, I suppose he ought to
+know. I am glad to find I had so early achieved the distinction of
+keeping an amanuensis.
+
+The dignity of print I achieved not much later, contributing verses and
+virtuous essays to various juvenile organs. But it was not till I was
+eighteen that I achieved a printed first book. The story of this first
+book is peculiar; and, to tell it in approved story form, I must request
+the reader to come back two years with me.
+
+[Illustration: "LOOKING FOR TOOLE."]
+
+One fine day, when I was sixteen, I was wandering about the Ramsgate
+sands looking for Toole. I did not really expect to see him, and I had
+no reason to believe he was in Ramsgate, but I thought if providence
+were kind to him it might throw him in my way. I wanted to do him a good
+turn. I had written a three-act farcical comedy at the request of an
+amateur dramatic club. I had written out all the parts, and I think
+there were rehearsals. But the play was never produced. In the light of
+after knowledge I suspect some of those actors must have been of quite
+professional calibre. You understand, therefore, why my thoughts turned
+to Toole. But I could not find Toole. Instead, I found on the sands a
+page of a paper called _Society_. It is still running merrily at a
+penny, but at that time it had also a Saturday edition at threepence. On
+this page was a great prize-competition scheme, as well as details of a
+regular weekly competition. The competitions in those days were always
+literary and intellectual, but then popular education had not made such
+strides as to-day.
+
+I sat down on the spot, and wrote something which took a prize in the
+weekly competition. This emboldened me to enter for the great stakes.
+
+[Illustration: "I SAT DOWN AND WROTE SOMETHING."]
+
+There were various events. I resolved to enter for two. One was a short
+novel, and the other a comedietta. The "£5 humorous story" competition I
+did not go in for; but when the last day of sending in MSS. for that
+had passed, I reproached myself with not having despatched one of my
+manuscripts. Modesty had prevented me sending in old work, as I felt
+assured it would stand no chance, but when it was too late I was annoyed
+with myself for having thrown away a possibility. After all I could have
+lost nothing. Then I discovered that I had mistaken the last date, and
+that there was still a day. In the joyful reaction I selected a story
+called "Professor Grimmer," and sent it in. Judge of my amazement when
+this got the prize (£5), and was published in serial form, running
+through three numbers of _Society_. Last year, at a press dinner, I
+found myself next to Mr. Arthur Goddard, who told me he had acted as
+Competition Editor, and that quite a number of now well-known people had
+taken part in these admirable competitions. My painfully laboured novel
+only got honourable mention, and my comedietta was lost in the post.
+
+[Illustration: Arthur Goddard.]
+
+But I was now at the height of literary fame, and success stimulated me
+to fresh work. I still marvel when I think of the amount of rubbish I
+turned out in my seventeenth and eighteenth years, in the scanty leisure
+of a harassed pupil-teacher at an elementary school, working hard in the
+evenings for a degree at the London University to boot. There was a
+fellow pupil-teacher (let us call him Y.) who believed in me, and who
+had a little money with which to back his belief. I was for starting a
+comic paper. The name was to be _Grimaldi_, and I was to write it all
+every week.
+
+"But don't you think your invention would give way ultimately?" asked Y.
+It was the only time he ever doubted me.
+
+"By that time I shall be able to afford a staff," I replied
+triumphantly.
+
+Y. was convinced. But before the comic paper was born, Y. had another
+happy thought. He suggested that if I wrote a Jewish story, we might
+make enough to finance the comic paper. I was quite willing. If he had
+suggested an epic, I should have written it.
+
+So I wrote the story in four evenings (I always write in spurts), and
+within ten days from the inception of the idea the booklet was on sale
+in a coverless pamphlet form. The printing cost ten pounds. I paid five
+(the five I had won), Y. paid five, and we divided the profits. He has
+since not become a publisher.
+
+[Illustration: "IT WAS HAWKED ABOUT THE STREETS."]
+
+My first book (price one penny nett) went well. It was loudly denounced
+by Jews, and widely bought by them; it was hawked about the streets. One
+little shop in Whitechapel sold four hundred copies. It was even on
+Smith's book-stalls. There was great curiosity among Jews to know the
+name of the writer. Owing to my anonymity, I was enabled to see those
+enjoying its perusal, who were afterwards to explain to me their horror
+and disgust at its illiteracy and vulgarity. By vulgarity vulgar Jews
+mean the reproduction of the Hebrew words with which the poor and the
+old-fashioned interlard their conversation. It is as if English-speaking
+Scotchmen and Irishmen should object to "dialect" novels reproducing the
+idiom of their "uncultured" countrymen. I do not possess a copy of my
+first book, but somehow or other I discovered the MS. when writing
+_Children of the Ghetto_. The description of market-day in Jewry was
+transferred bodily from the MS. of my first book, and is now generally
+admired.
+
+What the profits were I never knew, for they were invested in the second
+of our publications. Still jealously keeping the authorship secret, we
+published a long comic ballad which I had written on the model of Bab.
+With this we determined to launch out in style, and so we had gorgeous
+advertisement posters printed in three colours, which were to be stuck
+about London to beautify that great dreary city. Y. saw the back-hair of
+Fortune almost within our grasp.
+
+[Illustration: "A POLICEMAN TOLD HIM TO GET DOWN."]
+
+One morning our headmaster walked into my room with a portentously
+solemn air. I felt instinctively that the murder was out. But he only
+said "Where is Y.?" though the mere coupling of our names was ominous,
+for our publishing partnership was unknown. I replied, "How should I
+know? In his room, I suppose."
+
+He gave me a peculiar sceptical glance.
+
+"When did you last see Y.?" he said.
+
+"Yesterday afternoon," I replied wonderingly.
+
+"And you don't know where he is now?"
+
+"Haven't an idea--isn't he in school?"
+
+"No," he replied in low, awful tones.
+
+"Where then?" I murmured.
+
+"_In prison!_"
+
+"In prison," I gasped.
+
+"In prison; I have just been to help bail him out."
+
+It transpired that Y. had suddenly been taken with a further happy
+thought. Contemplation of those gorgeous tricoloured posters had turned
+his brain, and, armed with an amateur paste-pot and a ladder, he had
+sallied forth at midnight to stick them about the silent streets, so as
+to cut down the publishing expenses. A policeman, observing him at work,
+had told him to get down, and Y., being legal-minded, had argued it out
+with the policeman _de haut en bas_ from the top of his ladder. The
+outraged majesty of the law thereupon haled Y. off to the cells.
+
+Naturally the cat was now out of the bag, and the fat in the fire.
+
+To explain away the poster was beyond the ingenuity of even a professed
+fiction-monger.
+
+Straightway the committee of the school was summoned in hot haste, and
+held debate upon the scandal of a pupil-teacher being guilty of
+originality. And one dread afternoon, when all Nature seemed to hold its
+breath, I was called down to interview a member of the committee. In his
+hand were copies of the obnoxious publications.
+
+[Illustration: "'SUCH STUFF AS LITTLE BOYS SCRIBBLE UP ON WALLS.'"]
+
+I approached the great person with beating heart. He had been kind to me
+in the past, singling me out, on account of some scholastic successes,
+for an annual vacation at the seaside. It has only just struck me, after
+all these years, that, if he had not done so, I should not have found
+the page of _Society_, and so not have perpetrated the deplorable
+compositions.
+
+In the course of a bad quarter of an hour, he told me that the ballad
+was tolerable, though not to be endured; he admitted the metre was
+perfect, and there wasn't a single false rhyme. But the prose novelette
+was disgusting. "It is such stuff," said he, "as little boys scribble up
+on walls."
+
+I said I could not see anything objectionable in it.
+
+"Come now, confess you are ashamed of it," he urged. "You only wrote it
+to make money."
+
+"If you mean that I deliberately wrote low stuff to make money," I
+replied calmly, "it is untrue. There is nothing I am ashamed of. What
+you object to is simply realism." I pointed out Bret Harte had been as
+realistic, but they did not understand literature on that committee.
+
+"Confess you are ashamed of yourself," he reiterated, "and we will look
+over it."
+
+"I am not," I persisted, though I foresaw only too clearly that my
+summer's vacation was doomed if I told the truth. "What is the use of
+saying I am?"
+
+The headmaster uplifted his hands in horror. "How, after all your
+kindness to him, he can contradict you----!" he cried.
+
+"When I come to be your age," I conceded to the member of the committee,
+"it is possible I may look back on it with shame. At present I feel
+none."
+
+In the end I was given the alternative of expulsion or of publishing
+nothing which had not passed the censorship of the committee. After
+considerable hesitation I chose the latter.
+
+This was a blessing in disguise; for, as I have never been able to
+endure the slightest arbitrary interference with my work, I simply
+abstained from publishing. Thus, although I still wrote--mainly
+sentimental verses--my nocturnal studies were less interrupted. Not till
+I had graduated, and was of age, did I return to my inky vomit. Then
+came my next first book--a real book at last.
+
+In this also I had the collaboration of a fellow-teacher, Louis Cowen by
+name. This time my colleague was part-author. It was only gradually that
+I had been admitted to the privilege of communion with him, for he was
+my senior by five or six years, and a man of brilliant parts who had
+already won his spurs in journalism, and who enjoyed deservedly the
+reputation of an Admirable Crichton. What drew me to him was his mordant
+wit (to-day, alas! wasted on anonymous journalism! If he would only
+reconsider his indetermination, the reading public would be the richer!)
+Together we planned plays, novels, treatises on political economy, and
+contributions to philosophy. Those were the days of dreams.
+
+[Illustration: LIFE IN BETHNAL GREEN.]
+
+One afternoon he came to me with quivering sides, and told me that an
+idea for a little shilling book had occurred to him. It was that a
+Radical Prime Minister and a Conservative working man should change into
+each other by supernatural means, and the working man be confronted with
+the problem of governing, while the Prime Minister should be as
+comically out of place in the East End environment. He thought it would
+make a funny "Arabian Nights" sort of burlesque. And so it would have
+done; but, unfortunately, I saw subtler possibilities of political
+satire in it. I insisted the story must be real, not supernatural, the
+Prime Minister must be a Tory, weary of office, and it must be an
+ultra-Radical atheistic artisan bearing a marvellous resemblance to him
+who directs (and with complete success) the Conservative
+Administration. To add to the mischief, owing to my collaborator's
+evenings being largely taken up by other work, seven-eighths of the book
+came to be written by me, though the leading ideas were, of course,
+threshed out and the whole revised in common, and thus it became a
+vent-hole for all the ferment of a youth of twenty-one, whose literary
+faculty had furthermore been pent up for years by the potential
+censorship of a committee. The book, instead of being a shilling skit,
+grew to a ten-and-sixpenny (for that was the unfortunate price of
+publication) political treatise of over sixty long chapters and 500
+closely-printed pages. I drew all the characters as seriously and
+complexly as if the fundamental conception were a matter of history; the
+out-going Premier became an elaborate study of a nineteenth century
+Hamlet; the Bethnal Green life amid which he came to live was presented
+with photographic fulness and my old trick of realism; the governmental
+manoeuvres were described with infinite detail; numerous real
+personages were introduced under nominal disguises, and subsequent
+history was curiously anticipated in some of the Female Franchise and
+Home Rule episodes. Worst of all, so super-subtle was the satire, that
+it was never actually stated straight out that the Premier had changed
+places with the Radical working man, so that the door might be left open
+for satirically suggested alternative explanations of the metamorphosis
+in their characters; and as, moreover, the two men re-assumed their
+original _rôles_ for one night only with infinitely complex effects,
+many readers, otherwise unimpeachable, reached the end without any
+suspicion of the actual plot--and yet (on their own confession) enjoyed
+the book!
+
+[Illustration: "HAD IT SENT ROUND."]
+
+In contrast to all this elephantine waggery the half-a-dozen chapters
+near the commencement, in which my collaborator sketched the first
+adventures of the Radical working man in Downing Street, were light and
+sparkling, and I feel sure the shilling skit he originally meditated
+would have been a great success. We christened the book _The Premier and
+the Painter_, ourselves J. Freeman Bell, had it type-written, and sent
+it round to the publishers in two enormous quarto volumes. I had been
+working at it for more than a year every evening after the hellish
+torture of the day's teaching, and all day every holiday, but now I had
+a good rest while it was playing its boomerang prank of returning to me
+once a month. The only gleam of hope came from Bentleys, who wrote to
+say that they could not make up their minds to reject it; but they
+prevailed upon themselves to part with it at last, though not without
+asking to see Mr. Bell's next book. At last it was accepted by Spencer
+Blackett, and, though it had been refused by all the best houses, it
+failed. Failed in a material sense, that is; for there was plenty of
+praise in the papers, though at too long intervals to do us any good.
+The _Athenæum_ has never spoken so well of anything I have done since.
+The late James Runciman (I learnt after his death that it was he) raved
+about it in various uninfluential organs. It even called forth a leader
+in the _Family Herald (!)_, and there are odd people here and there, who
+know the secret of J. Freeman Bell, who declare that I. Zangwill will
+never do anything so good. There was some sort of a cheap edition, but
+it did not sell much, and when, some years ago, Spencer Blackett went
+out of business, I acquired the copyright and the remainder copies,
+which are still lying about somewhere. And not only did _The Premier and
+the Painter_ fail with the great public, it did not even help either of
+us one step up the ladder; never got us a letter of encouragement nor a
+stroke of work. I had to begin journalism at the very bottom and
+entirely unassisted, narrowly escaping canvassing for advertisements,
+for I had by this time thrown up my scholastic position, and had gone
+forth into the world penniless and without even a "character," branded
+as an Atheist (because I did not worship the Lord who presided over our
+committee) and a Revolutionary (because I refused to break the law of
+the land).
+
+[Illustration: MR. ZANGWILL AT WORK.]
+
+I should stop here if I were certain I had written the required article.
+But as _The Premier and the Painter_ was not entirely _my_ first book, I
+may perhaps be expected to say something of my third first book, and the
+first to which I put my name--_The Bachelors' Club_. Years of literary
+apathy succeeded the failure of _The Premier and the Painter_. All I did
+was to publish a few serious poems (which, I hope, will survive _Time_),
+a couple of pseudonymous stories signed "The Baroness Von S." (!), and a
+long philosophical essay upon religion, and to lend a hand in the
+writing of a few playlets. Becoming convinced of the irresponsible
+mendacity of the dramatic profession, I gave up the stage, too, vowing
+never to write except on commission, and sank entirely into the slough
+of journalism (glad enough to get there), _inter alia_ editing a comic
+paper (not _Grimaldi_, but _Ariel_) with a heavy heart. At last the long
+apathy wore off, and I resolved to cultivate literature again in my
+scraps of time. It is a mere accident that I wrote a pair of "funny"
+books, or put serious criticism of contemporary manners into a shape not
+understood in a country where only the dull are profound and only the
+ponderous are earnest. _The Bachelors' Club_ was the result of a
+whimsical remark made by my dear friend, Eder of Bartholomew's, with
+whom I was then sharing rooms in Bernard Street, and who helped me
+greatly with it, and its publication was equally accidental. One spring
+day, in the year of grace 1891, having lived unsuccessfully for a score
+of years and seven upon this absurd planet, I crossed Fleet Street and
+stepped into what is called "success." It was like this. Mr. J. T.
+Grein, now of the Independent Theatre, meditated a little monthly called
+_The Playgoers' Review_, and he asked me to do an article for the first
+number, on the strength of some speeches I had made at the Playgoers'
+Club. When I got the proof it was marked "Please return at once to 6,
+Bouverie Street." My office boy being out, and Bouverie Street being
+only a few steps away, I took it over myself, and found myself, somewhat
+to my surprise, in the office of Henry & Co., publishers, and in the
+presence of Mr. J. Hannaford Bennett, an active partner in the firm. He
+greeted me by name, also to my surprise, and told me he had heard me
+speak at the Playgoers' Club. A little conversation ensued, and he
+mentioned that his firm was going to bring out a Library of Wit and
+Humour. I told him I had begun a book, avowedly humorous, and had
+written two chapters of it, and he straightway came over to my office,
+heard me read them, and immediately secured the book. (The then editor
+ultimately refused to have it in the "Whitefriars' Library of Wit and
+Humour," and so it was brought out separately.) Within three months,
+working in odds and ends of time, I finished it, correcting the proofs
+of the first chapters while I was writing the last; indeed, ever since
+the day I read those two chapters to Mr. Hannaford Bennett I have never
+written a line anywhere that has not been purchased before it was
+written. For, to my undying astonishment, two average editions of my
+real "First Book" were disposed of on the day of publication, to say
+nothing of the sale in New York. Unless I had acquired a reputation of
+which I was totally unconscious, it must have been the title that
+"fetched" the trade. Or, perhaps, it was the illustrations by my friend,
+Mr. George Hutchinson, whom I am proud to have discovered as a
+cartoonist for _Ariel_.
+
+[Illustration: "EDITING A COMIC PAPER."]
+
+So here the story comes to a nice sensational climax. Re-reading it, I
+feel dimly that there ought to be a moral in it somewhere for the
+benefit of struggling fellow-scribblers. But the best I can find is
+this: That if you are blessed with some talent, a great deal of
+industry, and an amount of conceit mighty enough to enable you to
+disregard superiors, equals and critics, as well as the fancied demands
+of the public, it is possible, without friends, or introductions, or
+bothering celebrities to read your manuscripts, or cultivating the camp
+of the log-rollers, to attain, by dint of slaving day and night for
+years during the flower of your youth, to a fame infinitely less
+widespread than a prize-fighter's, and a pecuniary position which you
+might with far less trouble have been born to.
+
+[Illustration: "A FAME LESS WIDESPREAD THAN A PRIZE-FIGHTER'S."]
+
+
+
+
+_By the Light of the Lamp._
+
+BY HILDA NEWMAN.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY HAL HURST.
+
+          -----
+
+A day in bed! Oh! the horror of it to a man who has never ailed anything
+in his life! A day away from the excitement (pleasurable or otherwise)
+of business, the moving throng of city streets, the anticipated chats
+with business friends and casual acquaintances--the world of men.
+Nothing to look upon but the four walls of the room, which, in spite of
+its cosiness, he only associates with dreams, nightmares, and dull
+memories of sleepless nights, and chilly mornings. Nothing to listen to
+but the twittering of the canary downstairs, and the distant wrangling
+of children in the nursery: no one to speak to but the harassed
+housewife, wanted in a dozen places at once, and the pert housemaid,
+whose noisiness is distracting. The man lay there, cursing his
+helplessness. In spite of his iron will, the unseen enemy, who had
+stolen in by night, conquered, holding him down with a hundred tingling
+fingers when he attempted to rise, and drawing a misty veil over his
+eyes when he tried to read, till at last he was forced to resign
+himself, with closed eyes, and turn day into night. But the lowered
+blind was a sorry substitute for the time of rest, and brought him no
+light, refreshing sleep, so, in the spirit, he occupied his customary
+chair at the office, writing and receiving cheques, drawing up new
+circulars, and ordering the clerks about in the abrupt, peremptory
+manner he thought proper to adopt towards subordinates--the wife
+included.
+
+He tortured himself by picturing the disorganisation of the staff in his
+enforced absence--for he had grown to believe that nothing could prosper
+without his personal supervision, though the head clerk had been ten
+years in his employ. Then he remembered an important document, that
+should have been signed before, and a foreign letter, which probably
+awaited him, and fretted himself into a fever of impatience and
+aggravation.
+
+[Illustration: "RETURNING WITH A DAINTILY-SPREAD TRAY."]
+
+Just at the climax of his reflections his wife entered the room. She was
+a silent little woman, with weary eyes. Perhaps her burden of household
+cares, and the complaints of an exacting husband, had made her
+prematurely old, for there were already silver threads among the dark
+brown coils of hair that were neatly twisted in a bygone fashion, though
+she was young enough to have had a bright colour in her cheek, a merry
+light in her dark eyes, and a smile on her lips. These, and a becoming
+dress, would have made her a pretty woman; but a friendless, convent
+girlhood, followed by an early marriage, and unswerving obedience to the
+calls of a husband and family who demanded and accepted her unceasing
+attention and the sacrifice of her youth, without a word of gratitude or
+sympathy, had made her what she was--a plain, insignificant,
+faded-looking creature, with unsatisfied yearnings, and heartaches that
+she did not betray, fearing to be misunderstood or ridiculed.
+
+[Illustration: "FAST ASLEEP IN THE LOW WICKER ARMCHAIR."]
+
+She listened quietly to his complaints, and bore without reproach his
+mocking answers to her offers of help. Then she softly drew up the
+blind, and went downstairs, returning with a daintily-spread tray. But
+the tempting oysters she had had such trouble to procure were pettishly
+refused, and the tray was not even allowed to be in the room. The wife
+sat down near the window, and took up a little garment she was
+making--her face was flushed, and her lips trembled as she stitched and
+folded--it seemed so hard that she could do nothing to please him,
+knowing, as she did, that he considered hers an idle life, since they
+kept servants to do the work of the house. He did not know of her
+heart-breaking attempts to keep within the limits of her weekly
+allowance, with unexpected calls from the nursery, and kitchen
+breakages; he forgot that it would not go so far now that there were
+more children to clothe and feed, and, when she gently hinted this, he
+hurled the bitter taunt of extravagance at her, not dreaming that she
+was really pinched for money, and stinting herself of a hundred and one
+things necessary to her comfort and well-being for the sake of her
+family. Indeed, it was part of his theory never to yield to requests of
+this kind, since they were sure to be followed by others at no distant
+date, and, besides, he greatly prided himself on firmness in domestic
+matters.
+
+She was very worried to-day; anxious about her husband's health, and
+sorely grieved at the futility of all her efforts to interest or help
+him. Great tears gathered in her eyes, and were ready to fall, but they
+had to be forced back, for she was called out of the room again.
+
+And so it went on throughout the afternoon--in and out--up and
+down--never resting--never still--her thoughts always with the
+discontented invalid, who fell asleep towards evening, after a
+satisfactory meal, cooked and served by his patient helpmate, and eaten
+in a desultory manner, as if its speedier consumption would imply too
+much appreciation of her culinary kindness.
+
+About midnight he awoke, refreshed in body and mind, and singularly
+clear of brain.
+
+His first feeling was one of intense relief, for he felt quite free from
+pain, and to-morrow would find him in town, writing and scolding--in
+short, himself again. He sat up in bed, and looked round. The gas was
+turned low, but on a little table consecrated to his wants stood a
+carefully-shaded lamp. By its soft light he discovered his wife, fast
+asleep in the low, wicker armchair, whose gay chintz cover contrasted
+strangely with her neat dark dress. She had evidently meant to sit up
+all night in case he felt worse, but had succumbed from sheer weariness,
+still grasping the tiny frock she had been mending. He noticed her
+roughened forefinger, but excused it, when he saw the little, even
+stitches. Finally, he decided not to disturb her, but, as he settled
+down again on the comfortable pillow, he was haunted by the image of her
+pale face, and, raising himself on his elbow, looked at her again,
+reflectively. She was certainly very white.
+
+He blamed the lamplight at first, but his conscience spoke clearly in
+the dim silence, as he recalled her anxiety for him, and her gentle,
+restless footsteps on the stairs, and, now that he began to think of it,
+she had not eaten all day. He scolded her severely for it in his mind.
+Was there not plenty for her if she wanted it?
+
+But that inner self would not be silenced. "How about her idle life?" it
+said--"has she had time to eat to-day?"
+
+He could not answer.
+
+She sighed in her sleep, and her lashes were wet as from recent tears.
+For the first time he noticed the silver hairs, and the lines about her
+eyes, and wondered at them.
+
+[Illustration: "SOBBING OUT YEARS OF LONELINESS."]
+
+And the still, small voice pierced his heart, saying, "Whose fault is
+it?"
+
+As he shut his eyes--vainly endeavouring to dismiss the unwelcome
+thoughts that came crowding in upon his mind, and threatened to destroy
+his belief in the perfect theory he loved to expound--a past day rose
+before him. He held her hand, and, looking into her timid, girlish face,
+said to himself, "I can mould her to my will." Then she came to him,
+alone and friendless, with no one to help hide her inexperience and
+nervousness.
+
+He recalled the gentle questions he was always too busy to answer, till
+they troubled him no more; and the silent reproach of her quivering lips
+when he blamed her for some little household error. And, though he
+believed that his training had made her useful and independent, he
+remembered, with a pang of remorse, many occasions on which an
+affectionate word of appreciation had hovered on his tongue, and
+wondered what foolish pride or reserve had made him hesitate and choke
+it down, when he knew what it meant to her. Birthdays, and all those
+little anniversaries which stand out clearly on the calendar of a
+woman's heart, he had forgotten, or remembered only when the time for
+wishes and kisses was over. Yet he had never reproached himself for this
+before. But to-day he had seen enough to understand something of the
+responsibility that rested on her, the ignorance of the servants, the
+healthy, clamouring children, who would only obey _her_, and the hundred
+and one daily incidents that would have worried him into a frenzy, but
+which only left her serene and patient, and anxious to do her duty. The
+poor wan face had grown lovely to him, and the lines on her forehead
+spoke with an eloquence beyond the most passionate appeal for sympathy
+that she could have uttered--what would the house be without her? What
+if he were going to lose her? His heart was shaken by a terrible fear as
+he sat up with misty eyes, and, brokenly uttering her name, held out his
+arms imploringly.
+
+_Oh! God, if she should never wake again!_.... But she answered him,
+breathlessly, waking from a wonderful dream, in which she saw him
+wandering afar through a fragrant garden, that she longed to enter--then
+as she wept, despairingly hiding her face in her hands, she heard him
+calling her, first softly, then louder--and louder--
+
+And the garden faded away.
+
+But the dawn found her sobbing out years of loneliness on her husband's
+breast.
+
+
+
+
+_Memoirs of a Female Nihilist._
+
+BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. ST. M. FITZ-GERALD.
+
+               -----
+
+III.--ONE DAY.
+
+
+[Illustration: "AT BREAKFAST."]
+
+Eight o'clock in the morning. I am taking my tea while idly turning over
+the leaves of a book, when the noise of an explosion causes me to
+suddenly raise my head. Explosions are not of rare occurrence at the
+fortress of X----, of which the outer wall encloses several hundred
+barrack rooms and places where the garrison are exercised, and I am
+quite accustomed to the noise of cannon and small arms. This solitary
+explosion, however, seemed so close at hand, and has so strongly shaken
+the prison, that, anxious to know what has happened, I rise and approach
+the door and listen. A few moments of silence--then, suddenly, from
+somewhere in the corridor, comes the jingle of spurs, the clash of
+swords, and the sound of voices. At first, all this noise is stationary,
+then gradually it grows and appears to spread on all sides. Something
+extraordinary has surely happened behind this heavy door, something is
+now happening which causes me anxiety. But what is it? Standing on
+tip-toes, I try to look through the small square of glass covering the
+wicket, but the outside shutter is closed, and in spite of the habit
+which I and other prisoners have of finding some small aperture through
+which a glimpse of the corridor may be obtained, to-day I can see
+nothing. Only the noise of heavy and rapid footsteps, each moment
+stronger and more distinct, comes to my ears. I seem to hear in the
+distance the choked and panting voice of Captain W---- asking some
+question, then another nearer and unknown voice replies--"Oh! yes,
+killed! Killed outright!"
+
+[Illustration: "BREAKING THE CELL DOORS."]
+
+Killed? Who? How and why? Killed? My God! Have I heard aright? Killed!
+No, no; it is impossible! Breathless, and with beating heart, I consider
+for a moment in order to find some pretext for having this heavy door
+opened. Shall I ask to see the director--or the doctor--or say I am
+thirsty and have no water? The latter is the most simple, and, my jug
+hastily emptied, I return to the wicket to knock. In ordinary times the
+slightest blow struck on the little square of glass brings my "blue
+angel," the warder. Now, I knock loudly, and again and again. The
+intervals seem like an eternity, but the little shutter remains closed,
+while the sound of spurs, swords, and voices cross each other in the
+corridor, sometimes near, then dying away into the distance. A few
+moments more of anxious waiting and agony almost insupportable, then I
+raise my arm determined to break the window, when a new noise from the
+outside causes a shudder to run through me.
+
+Clear and sharp, the noise is that of windows broken in rapid
+succession; it is the signal that the prisoners have revolted. Distant
+at first, the noise approaches with lightning-like rapidity on the side
+of the principal building of the prison, and as it approaches it is
+accompanied by cries and loud questioning. Without knowing the cause of
+the outbreak, I seize the first hard object that comes to my hand, a
+dictionary, and with one bound I am on my table, and in my turn break
+the glass of my window, the fragments of which ring gaily as they fall,
+some into the court-yard, and the others on the stone floor of my cell.
+
+As the window falls to pieces a flood of light invades my cell, and I
+feel the warm air, and smell a perfume as of new-mown hay. For a moment
+I am blinded, suffocated, then with both hands I seize the iron bars and
+draw myself up to the narrow window ledge. A confused noise of breaking
+glass gradually passing away in the distance, and the cracking of wood
+fills the pure air of the glorious summer morning; while on all sides
+are heard the voices of anxious men and women, all asking the same
+questions, "What has happened? Why are we revolting?"
+
+[Illustration: "SHOT HIM THROUGH THE HEAD."]
+
+For a long time these questions remain unanswered, then at last a new
+and distant voice--at times rendered inaudible by the wind--announces
+that a warder, or a guard, has killed one of our comrades, the prisoner
+Ivanoff, in his cell, and that the prisoners in the other buildings are
+breaking the furniture and the cell doors.
+
+This reply, which comrades transmit from window to window, petrifies me.
+After hearing the explosion and the words spoken in the corridor; after
+a long and anxious incertitude; after this announcement of a revolt in
+which I myself am taking part--the reply is not unexpected. And yet I
+understand nothing of the matter; I am thoroughly upset, and my brain
+refuses to understand and believe. Killed? Ivanoff, the youth whom, by
+the way, I do not know personally. Killed? But why? Without weapons and
+under lock and key, what can he have done to deserve death? Has he
+attempted to escape? But does one attempt such an enterprise in open
+day and under the eyes of sentries and warders? Besides, Ivanoff had
+committed no other crime than fetching from the post-office a letter
+intended for one of his friends whose name he refused to give, while the
+friend, arrested since, has assumed the responsibility of the
+correspondence. Ivanoff was to have been liberated on bail in the course
+of a few days, and do those in such a position attempt escape on the eve
+of their release? But why, why has he been killed?
+
+These questions I ask myself while the sound of breaking glass
+continues. My neighbours appear to have been pursuing a train of thought
+similar to mine, for I hear several of them calling to our informant,
+and enquiring, "How and why was he killed?"
+
+Then a long, long, anxious wait, and then the reply, "Yes, killed!" Not
+by a warder, but by a sentry on guard in the court-yard, who, seeing
+Ivanoff at his window, shot him through the head. The occupier of a
+neighbouring cell, also at that moment at his window, saw the shot
+fired. Others heard the fall of the body. Some have called to him, and
+received no reply; therefore Ivanoff is dead. As to why he was
+assassinated, nobody knows.
+
+This recital, several times interrupted by noises and screams, is
+nevertheless clear and precise. My neighbours, one after the other,
+descend from their windows, and commence to break up furniture and
+attack the doors. I follow their example, and recommence my work of
+destruction. Water-bottle, glass, basin, the wicket in the door, and all
+that is fragile in my cell flies to pieces, and, with the broken glass
+from the window, covers the floor. In spite of the feverish haste with
+which I accomplish this sad task, my heart is not in the work. All this
+is so unexpected, so unreal, so violent, that it bewilders me. But
+through the bewilderment the questions, "Is it possible? And why?"
+continue to force their way. Then I say to myself, "If this man, this
+soldier, has really killed Ivanoff, it was, perhaps, in a fit of
+drunkenness; or, perhaps, his gun went off accidentally; or, perhaps,
+seeing a prisoner at a window, he thought it an attempt at escape."
+While these ideas, rapid and confused, rush through my brain, I continue
+to break everything breakable that comes under my hands--because the
+others are doing the same--because, for prisoners, it is the only means
+of protest. The sentiment, however, which dominates me is not one of
+rage, but of infinite sadness, which presses me down and renders weak my
+trembling arms.
+
+But now the uproar augments. Several prisoners have demolished their
+beds, and with the broken parts are attacking the doors. The noise of
+iron hurled with force against the oak panels dominates all others.
+Through my broken wicket, I hear the voice of the Commandant ordering
+the soldiers to fire on any prisoner leaving his cell, and to the
+warders to manacle all those who are attempting to break down their
+doors.
+
+[Illustration: "NADINE'S DOOR FORCED."]
+
+All these noises, blended with screams and imprecations, the jingle of
+spurs, the clatter of sword-scabbards crossing and recrossing each
+other, excite and intoxicate me. Wild at my lack of energy and strength,
+I seize with both hands my stool. It is old and worm-eaten, and after I
+have several times flung it on the floor, the joints give way, and it
+falls to pieces. As I turn to find some other object for destruction, a
+flushed and agitated face appears at the wicket, and a moment later the
+door is partly opened, and a warder pushes with violence a woman into my
+cell. So great is the force employed, and so rapid the movement, that I
+have difficulty in seizing her in my arms to prevent her falling upon
+the floor amongst the broken glass and _débris_ of furniture.
+
+This unexpected visitor is one of my friends and fellow-captives, Nadine
+B----. Surprised at this unexpected meeting, and the conditions under
+which it takes place, we are for some instants speechless, but during
+those few moments I again see all our past, and also note the changes
+which ten months' imprisonment have wrought in my friend; then, very
+pale, and trembling with nervous excitement, Nadine explains that her
+door having been forced during a struggle in the corridor, an officer
+ordered her to be removed and locked up with another female prisoner.
+Her cell was in the same corridor as that of Ivanoff, and of the death
+of the latter there is no doubt. Several comrades, her neighbours, have
+seen the body taken away. As to the grounds for his assassination, she
+heard a group of officers, before her door, conversing, and one said
+that the Commandant, not satisfied with the manner in which the warders
+in the corridors discharged their duties in watching the prisoners, gave
+orders to the sentries to watch from the court-yard and to shoot any
+prisoner who appeared at his window.
+
+This, then, is the reason for this assassination, in open day, of a
+defenceless prisoner! The penalty of death for disobedience to one of
+the prison regulations. Is this, then, a caprice, or an access of
+ill-temper, on the part of an officer who has no authority in this
+matter, since prisoners awaiting trial are only responsible to the
+representatives of our so-called justice? Like a thunderclap this
+explanation drives away my hesitation and sadness, which are now
+replaced by indignation and a limitless horror; and while Nadine, sick
+and worn, throws herself upon my bed, I mount to my window in order to
+communicate the news to my neighbours. The narrow court-yard, into which
+the sunshine streams, is, as usual, empty, excepting for the sentry on
+his eternal march. Above the wall I see a row of soldiers and
+workwomen's faces, all pale, as they look at the prison and listen to
+the noises. As I appear at the window a woman covers her face with her
+hands and screams, and I recognise her as the wife of one of our
+comrades, a workman. This cry, this gesture, the word "torture" that I
+hear run along the crest of the wall--all this at first surprises me.
+As, however, I follow the direction of the eyes of those gazing at me, I
+discover the cause. My hands, by which I am holding myself to the window
+bars, are covered with blood, the result of my recent work of
+destruction of glass and woodwork. There is blood, too, on my
+light-coloured dress. Poor woman! By voice and gesture I try to calm
+her. But does she hear me down there? The sentry looks towards me. He is
+young and very pale, and in his eyes, stupefied by what is going on
+around him, there is a world of carelessness and passiveness, and as I
+look into them a shudder of agony and despair passes through me.
+
+The voice of Nadine calling brings me to her side. Partly unconscious,
+she sobs in the commencement of a nervous crisis, and asks for water.
+Water! I have none. Not a drop! What is to be done?
+
+[Illustration: "A SOLDIER SEIZES THEM."]
+
+And while I try to calm her with gentle words and caresses, and look
+round in the vain hope that some few drops of the precious fluid may
+have escaped my notice, the door of the cell is suddenly opened, and
+several soldiers, drunk with the uproar and the fight, rush in. A cry of
+horror escapes me, and instinctively I retreat behind my bed. The noise
+of chains and the voice of the Commandant ordering that all prisoners be
+immediately manacled, reassures me. Ah! the chains! Only the chains! I
+do not intend to resist. All resistance on my part would be useless.
+Besides, I am anxious to be rid of the presence of these soldiers, and
+would willingly hold out to them my bleeding hands, if a confused idea
+in my brain did not tell me that such an act would be one of cowardice.
+And now a soldier seizes them, and drawing them behind my back, fastens
+heavy iron manacles to my wrists. Another attempts a similar operation
+upon Nadine, who, frightened, struggles and screams. Making an effort to
+calm her, I try to approach, but a sudden jerk on the chain attached to
+my manacles causes intense pain in my arms, and a rough voice cries
+"Back." Back? Why? I do not want to abandon Nadine, and instinctively I
+grasp the bed behind me. Another and a stronger jerk, I stumble, and a
+piece of broken glass pierces my thin shoe, and cuts my foot, and I am
+pulled backwards. I am now against that part of the wall where, at the
+height of about three feet, there is an iron ring, and whilst one of the
+soldiers attaches my chain to this ring Nadine is dragged towards the
+opposite wall.
+
+All this passes quickly in our cell, and the soldiers are soon gone and
+the door closed and locked. But in other cells prisoners resist, and as
+the struggle goes on and the noise increases so does the beating of my
+heart, and to me the tumult takes the proportions of a thunderstorm,
+and, broken down, I listen for some time without understanding the
+reason for the uproar.
+
+Slowly the noises die away. Nadine, either calmed or worn out, sobs
+quietly, and in this relative peace, the first for several hours, my
+mind becomes clearer, and I begin to have some idea of what is passing
+in and around me.
+
+My principal preoccupation is Nadine. She is pale, and appears to be so
+exhausted that I momentarily expect her to faint and remain suspended by
+the chains that rattle as she sobs. With a negative motion of her head
+and a few words, she assures me that the crisis is passed, that her arms
+pain her very much, and that she is very thirsty. Chained a few steps
+away, I cannot render her the slightest aid, and the thought of my
+helplessness is a cruel suffering. I, too, suffer in the arms. Heavy,
+they feel as though overrun and stung by thousands of insects, and, when
+I move, that sensation is changed to one of intense pain. My foot, too,
+is very painful, and as the blood oozes from my shoe it forms a pool,
+and I am very thirsty. All these sensations are lost in my extreme
+nervous excitement and anxiety for the others, who are now quiet, and
+for Nadine, from whom I instinctively turn my eyes.
+
+It is very warm, and through the broken window I see a large patch of
+sky, so transparent and luminous that my eyes, long accustomed to the
+twilight of my cell, can hardly stand the brightness. There is light
+everywhere. The walls, dry and white at this period of the year, are
+flooded with light, and the sun's rays, as they fall on the broken glass
+on the floor, produce thousands of bright star-like points, flashing and
+filling the cell with iridescent stars.
+
+[Illustration: "CHAINED AND THROWN FACE DOWNWARD."]
+
+With all this light there is the perfume-laden air blowing in at the
+window, and bringing the odours of the country in summer. Such is the
+quiet reigning that I can hear the sound of a distant church bell, can
+count the steps taken by the sentry in the court-yard below, and can
+hear the rustle of leaves of an open book on the floor, turned over by
+the gentle breeze.
+
+But this silence is only intermittent. In one of the cells during the
+struggle preceding the putting on of chains the soldiers threw a
+prisoner on the ground, and, in order to keep him still, one of them
+knelt upon his chest. Fainting, and with broken ribs, the unfortunate is
+rapidly losing his life's blood. His brother, a youth, who has been
+thrown into his cell as Nadine was into mine, grows frantic at the sight
+of the blood pouring from the victim's mouth, and screams for help. In
+another cell a prisoner who for a long time past has suffered from
+melancholia, suddenly goes mad, and sings the "Marseillaise" at the top
+of his voice, laughs wildly, and then shouts orders to imaginary
+soldiers. Elsewhere, of two sisters who for a long time past have shared
+the same cell, the eldest, chained to the wall, is shrieking to her
+sister, who, owing to the rupture of a blood-vessel, has suddenly died.
+At intervals she screams--"Comrades! Helena is dying--I think she is
+dead." Below, beneath our feet, a prisoner, too tightly manacled, his
+hands and feet pressed back and chained behind and thrown face downward,
+after making desperate efforts to turn over or keep his head up, at last
+gives up the struggle, and with his mouth against the cold stones and a
+choking rattle in his throat, he at intervals moans, "Oh! oh!"
+
+Each of these cries, accompanied by the strident clank of chains,
+produces upon me the effect of a galvanic battery, and I am obliged to
+put forth all that remains to me of moral strength to prevent myself
+from screaming and moaning like the others. With my feet in blood and my
+eyes burning with weeping, and the effect of the strong light, I try to
+maintain my upright position by leaning against the wall. Then from the
+depths of my heart something arises which causes it to throb as though
+it would burst.
+
+I have never hated! My participation in the revolutionary movement was
+the outcome of my desire to soothe suffering and misery, and to see
+realised the dream of a universal happiness and a universal brotherhood;
+and even here in prison, even this morning, within a few steps of an
+assassinated comrade, I sought explanations, that is to say, excuses; I
+thought of an accident, of a misunderstanding. Now, I hate. I hate with
+all the strength of my soul this stupid and ferocious _régime_ whose
+arbitrary authority puts the lives of thousands of defenceless human
+beings at the mercy of any one of its mercenaries. I hate it, because of
+the sufferings and the tears it has caused; for the obstacles it throws
+in the way of my country's development; for the chains which it places
+on thousands of bodies and thousands of souls; because of this thirst
+for blood which is growing within me. Yes! I hate it, and if it sufficed
+to will--if this tension of my entire being could resolve itself into
+action--oh! there would at this instant be many heads forming a
+_cortège_ to the bloody head of the comrade who has been so cowardly and
+ferociously assassinated.
+
+              *       *       *
+
+[Illustration: "REMOVED BEFORE OUR CHAINS WERE TAKEN OFF."]
+
+Eight o'clock at night. Nadine, very ill, sleeps upon my bed, groaning
+plaintively each time that an unconscious movement causes her to touch
+her arms, whilst I, like all the other prisoners not invalided, remain
+at my window. In spite of the silence of several months which has
+imposed upon us, the conversation flags. We are too tired, and there are
+too many sick amongst us; there are also the dead. Where are they now?
+Removed before our chains were taken off, they will this night be buried
+with other corpses of political prisoners, secretly hid away to rest by
+the police in order to avoid any public manifestation on the part of
+friends, or remarks on the part of the local population. These thoughts,
+at intervals, awaken our anger, and then murmurs are heard. As the night
+grows deeper, and the sounds of evening are lost in the mists, covering
+the country as with a veil, our sick nerves become calmer, and our
+hatred gives place to an immense and tender sadness. Then we talk of our
+mothers, of the mother of Helena Q----, and of Ivanoff's mother, both of
+whom are probably still in ignorance of the death of their children, and
+are still waiting and hoping. And then we talk of the impression made
+upon our parents and friends when the echoes of this terrible day reach
+their ears.
+
+Just as the rattle of drums announces that the gates of the fortress are
+about to be closed for the night, we hear the tramp of soldiers and the
+jingle of sword-scabbards in the ground-floor corridor. It is a
+detachment of soldiers, accompanied by their officers and Captain W----,
+who have come to fetch away two of our comrades in order to escort them
+to the military prison. Young and vigorous, these two prisoners fought
+fiercely before they were overpowered and chained, and as the Commandant
+of the fortress, impatient at the duration of the struggle, took part in
+it, he was roughly handled. Blows struck at a superior officer
+constitute a crime for which the offenders are to be tried by
+court-martial. They know it, and we know it. But this haste on the part
+of the Commandant to have them in his hands--this order to transfer them
+at night--which is given by the Director in a trembling voice--is it a
+provocation or a folly? The outer court-yard is gradually and silently
+filling with moving shadows. Rifles, of which the barrels glitter in the
+starlight, are pointed towards our windows. This mute menace of a
+massacre in the darkness finds us indifferent, and not one of us leaves
+his or her place at the window. But some are ill, and all wounded and
+tired out by the emotions and struggles of the day, and having been
+without food for over twenty-six hours; and can we revolt again? As
+regards the court-martial, none fear, and all would be willing to be
+tried by it. Its verdicts are pitiless, terrible; but they are verdicts,
+and it is an end. To-morrow, one after the other, we shall go to the
+Director's cabinet, and there sign a declaration of our entire
+solidarity with those who are now being taken away, and that
+declaration, every word of which will be an insult thrown in the face of
+the Government, will terminate by a demand for trial by court-martial,
+not only of ourselves, but also of the Commandant of the fortress. This
+demand, as usual, will be supported by famine, by the absolute refusal
+of all prisoners to take any nourishment whatsoever, a process which
+kills the prisoners, but before which the Government, anxious to avoid
+the disastrous impression which these numerous deaths produce, yields,
+at least in appearance. Whilst we wait all is darkness, for the warders
+have not lit the little lamps. Through the disordered cells run strange
+murmurs, and passions are again aroused; while below, those who are
+being taken away make hasty preparations for their short journey.
+
+I do not know them. We are about a hundred prisoners, arrested in
+different parts of the province at different times, and in spite of our
+being described as "accomplices," many of us have never met or heard of
+each other.
+
+[Illustration: "TIRED OUT."]
+
+A few days later, before the windows are replaced, and the dull grey
+cloud again presses upon us, the desire to see and know each other
+suggests an idea. Each prisoner, standing at the window, holds a mirror
+which he or she passes outside the bars. Held at an angle these pieces
+of glass throw back floating images of pale, phantom-like faces, many of
+them unknown or unrecognisable. Those who are to-night leaving the
+prison are, for me, not even phantoms, but only voices heard for the
+first time this morning, and now so soon to be silenced, by the cord of
+Troloff, or in some cell at Schlüsselbourg or the Cross.[11] And yet, as
+I listen to these voices dying away in the dark distance, I again
+experience all the despair and all the hate of the day, and my last
+"adieu" is choked in a sob--and when, a few moments later, the heavy
+outer door is closed, a great shudder as of death passes over the
+prison.
+
+                         (_To be continued._)
+
+  [11] Troloff--the Russian public executioner. Schlüsselbourg and the
+  Cross--names of central prisons where the prisoners, placed in small
+  cells, are always chained. Deprived of books or tools, not allowed to
+  see their friends, forbidden to write or receive letters, those subject
+  to the treatment, after a few months, become mad and die.
+
+
+
+
+_A Slave of the Ring._
+
+BY ALFRED BERLYN.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN GÜLICH.
+
+          -----
+
+[Illustration: "A TROUBLED EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE."]
+
+The Rev. Thomas Todd, curate of S. Athanasius, Great Wabbleton, sat at
+the table in his little parlour with a local newspaper in his hand and a
+troubled expression on his face. There was something incongruous in the
+appearance of the deep frown that puckered the curate's brows; for his
+countenance, in its normal aspect, was chubby and plump and bland, and
+his little grey eyes were wont to shine with a benign and even a
+humorous twinkle. He was not remarkably young, as curates go; but he was
+quite young enough to be a subject of absorbing interest to the lady
+members of the S. Athanasius congregation, and to find himself the
+frequent recipient of those marks of feminine attention which are the
+recognised perquisites of the junior assistant clergy.
+
+Two or three times, the curate raised the paper from the table and
+re-read the passage that was evidently troubling him; and each time he
+did so the puckers deepened, and his expression became more and more
+careworn. It would have been difficult enough for a stranger to find any
+clue to the cause of his agitation in the portion of the _Wabbleton Post
+and Grubley Advertiser_ which the clergyman held before him; and the
+wonder would certainly have been increased by the discovery that the
+passage to which the reverend gentleman's attention was directed was
+nothing else than the following innocent little paragraph of news:--
+
+     "Grubley.--We are asked to state that Benotti's Original Circus,
+     one of the oldest established and most complete in the kingdom,
+     will give two performances daily at Bounders Green during the whole
+     of next week."
+
+There seemed little enough in such an announcement to bring disquiet to
+the curate's mind. Possibly, he cherished a conscientious objection to
+circuses, and remembered that, as Grubley and Great Wabbleton were only
+three miles apart, a section of the S. Athanasius flock might be allured
+next week by the meretricious attraction at Bounders Green. Yet even
+such solicitude for the welfare of the flock of which he was the
+assistant shepherd seemed scarcely to account either for his obvious
+distress, or for the fragments of soliloquy that escaped him at every
+fresh study of the paper.
+
+"Here, of all places in the world--absolute ruin--no, not on any
+account!"
+
+At length, throwing down the _Post_, the curate seized his hat, started
+at a rapid pace for the Vicarage, and was soon seated _tête-à-tête_ with
+his superior, an amiable old gentleman with a portly presence and an
+abiding faith in his assistant's ability to do the whole work of the
+parish unaided.
+
+"Vicar, do you think you can spare me for the next week or so? The fact
+is, I am feeling the want of a change badly, and should be glad of a few
+days to run down to my people in Devonshire."
+
+"My dear Todd, how unfortunate! I have just made arrangements to be away
+myself next week--and--and the week following. I am going up to London
+to stay with my old friend Canon Crozier. I was just coming to tell you
+so when you called. If you don't mind waiting till I return, I've no
+doubt we can manage to spare you for a day or two. Sorry you're not
+feeling well. By-the-bye, has that tiresome woman Mrs. Dunderton been
+worrying you? She came here yesterday about those candles, and
+threatened to write to the Bishop and denounce us as Popish
+conspirators. Couldn't you go and talk to her, and see if you can bring
+her to a more reasonable frame of mind?"
+
+The talk drifted to church and parish matters, and, as soon as he
+decently could, the curate took his leave, looking very much more
+depressed and anxious than ever. As he raised the latch of the Vicarage
+gate, a voice, whose sound he knew only too well, called to him by name;
+and, turning, he beheld Miss Caroline Cope, the Vicar's daughter,
+pursuing him skittishly down the garden path. Miss Caroline was not
+young, neither was she amiable, and her appearance was quite remarkably
+unattractive. All this would have mattered little to the curate, but
+for the fact that she had lately shown for him a marked partiality that
+had inspired him with considerable uneasiness. At this moment, when his
+mind was troubled with other matters, her unwelcome appearance aroused
+in his breast a feeling of extreme irritation.
+
+[Illustration: "DON'T RUN AWAY FROM ME."]
+
+"Don't run away from me, you naughty, unfeeling man," she began, with an
+elephantine attempt at archness. "I was going to ask you to take me down
+to the schoolrooms, but I shall have to go alone if you fly away from me
+like this."
+
+Mr. Todd, fervently wishing that flying were just then among his
+accomplishments, felt that now, while he was in the humour, was the
+time to free himself, finally if possible, from these embarrassing
+attentions.
+
+"I am sorry I cannot give myself the pleasure of accompanying you, Miss
+Cope. I have several sick persons and others to call upon in different
+parts of the parish, and my duties will fully occupy the whole of my
+morning. I'm afraid I don't happen to be going in the direction of the
+schools, so I must say 'good morning' here."
+
+And the curate raised his hat and passed on, fortifying himself with the
+reflection that what might in an ordinary case have been rudeness was in
+this instance the merest and most necessary self-defence.
+
+[Illustration: "A VIPEROUS LOOK IN HER FACE."]
+
+Miss Cope stood looking after his retreating figure with a viperous look
+in her face, and with a feeling of intense rage, which she promised
+herself to translate into action at the very earliest opportunity.
+
+Early in the following week, the Vicar started for London, and his
+curate was left in sole charge of the parish. That there was something
+amiss with Mr. Todd was evident to all who came in contact with him,
+both before and after the Vicar's departure. His former geniality seemed
+to have quite deserted him, and he looked worried, anxious, and ill. The
+ladies of S. Athanasius were greatly concerned at the change, and
+speculated wildly as to its cause. There was one among them, however,
+who made no comment upon the subject, and appeared, in fact, to ignore
+the curate's existence altogether. Whatever might be the source of that
+gentleman's troubles, he had, at any rate, freed himself from the
+unwelcome advances of Miss Caroline Cope.
+
+The third morning after the Vicar's departure, his assistant was sent
+for to visit a sick parishioner who lived just outside Great Wabbleton,
+on the high road to Grubley. The summons was an imperative one; but he
+obeyed it with a curious and unwonted reluctance. As he reached the
+outskirts of the town and struck into the Grubley road, his distaste
+for his errand seemed to increase, and he looked uneasily from side to
+side with a strange, furtive glance, in singular contrast to his usual
+steady gaze and cheerful smile. He reached his destination, however,
+without adventure, and remained for some time at the invalid's bedside.
+His return journey was destined to be more eventful. He had not
+proceeded far on his way back to Great Wabbleton, when a showily-dressed
+woman, who was passing him on the road, stopped short and regarded him
+with a prolonged and half-puzzled stare that ended in a sudden cry of
+amazed recognition. "Well--I'm blest--it's Tommy!"
+
+[Illustration: "IT'S TOMMY!"]
+
+She was a buxom, and by no means unattractive, person of about
+five-and-thirty, with an irresistibly "horsey" suggestion about her
+appearance and gait. As the curate's eye met hers, he turned deadly
+pale, and his knees trembled beneath him. That which he had dreaded for
+days and nights had come to pass.
+
+"Well, I'm blest!" said the lady again, "who'd have thought of meeting
+you here after all these years--and in this make-up, too! But I should
+have known you among a thousand, all the same. Why, Tommy, you don't
+mean to say they've gone and made a parson of you?"
+
+The curate was desperate. His first impulse was to deny all knowledge of
+the woman who stood gazing into his face with a comical expression of
+mingled amusement and surprise. But her next words showed him the
+hopelessness of such a course.
+
+"You're not going to say you don't know me, Tommy, though it _is_ nigh
+twenty years since we were in the ring together, and you've got into a
+black coat and a dog-collar. Fancy them making a parson of you; Lord,
+who'd have thought it! Well, I've had a leg-up, too, since then. I'm
+Madame Benotti now. The old lady died, and he made me missus of himself
+and the show. He often talks about you, and wouldn't he stare, just, to
+see you in this rig-out!"
+
+By the time, the Rev. Thomas Todd had recovered himself sufficiently to
+speak, and had decided that a bold course was the safest.
+
+"I'm really glad to see you again," he said, with a shuddering thought
+of the fate of Ananias; "it reminds me so of the old times. But, you
+see, things are changed with me. You remember the old gentleman who
+adopted me, and took me away from the circus? Well, he sent me to school
+and college, and then set his heart on my becoming, as you say, a
+parson. I haven't forgotten the old days, but--but you see, if the
+people round here knew about my having been----"
+
+"Lor' bless you, Tommy," broke in the good-natured _équestrienne_, "you
+don't think I'd be so mean as to go and queer an old pal's pitch; you've
+nothing to fear from me; don't be afraid, there's nobody coming"--for
+the curate was looking distractedly round. "Well, I'm mighty glad to
+have seen you again, even in this get-up, but I won't stop and talk to
+you any longer, or one of your flock might come round the corner, and
+then--O my! wouldn't there be a rumpus? Ha, ha, ha!"
+
+She laughed loudly, and the clergyman looked round again in an agony.
+
+"Now, Tommy, good-bye to you, and good luck. But look here, before you
+go, just for the sake of the old times, when you were 'little Sandy,'
+and I used to do the bare-backed business, you'll give us a kiss, won't
+you, old man?"
+
+And before the unhappy curate could prevent her, Madame Benotti had
+flung her muscular arms round his neck, and imprinted two sounding
+kisses on his cheeks.
+
+At that fatal moment, a female figure came round the bend of the road,
+and, to his indescribable horror, the curate recognised the dread form
+of the Vicar's daughter. She had seen all--of that there could be no
+doubt, but she came on, passed them, and continued on her way to Grubley
+without the smallest sign of recognition.
+
+"My goodness, Tommy, I hope that old cat wasn't one of your flock,"
+remarked Madame Benotti, with real concern, as soon as she had passed.
+"You look as scared as if you had seen a ghost; I hope I haven't----"
+
+But the curate waited to hear no more. With a hurried "Good-bye" he tore
+himself away, and made his way back to his apartments in a state
+bordering on desperation.
+
+[Illustration: "FLUNG HER MUSCULAR ARMS ROUND HIS NECK."]
+
+Locking himself in, he paced the room for some time, groaning aloud in a
+perfect frenzy of misery and apprehension. Then he flung himself into
+his chair, buried his face in his hands, and tried to think what was
+best to be done. After painful and intense thought, he decided that
+there was nothing for it but to tell Miss Cope the whole story, and
+appeal to her honour to keep it to herself. But how if she chose to
+revenge herself upon him by refusing to believe the story, or by
+declining to keep it secret? He could not conceal from himself that
+either of these results was more than possible. In that case, there
+remained only one resource; and it was of so terrible a nature that the
+curate positively shuddered at its contemplation. But it might even come
+to that; and better even _that_, he told himself, than the exposure, the
+ridicule, and the professional ruin that must otherwise befall him.
+
+Hour after hour passed, and he was still nerving himself for the coming
+interview, when a tap came at the door, and a note, left by hand, was
+brought in to him. He glanced at the address, and tore open the envelope
+with trembling hand. It contained these few words, without any sort of
+preliminary:--
+
+     "I think it right to give you warning that I shall take the
+     earliest opportunity of making known your disgraceful conduct
+     witnessed by me in the public streets this morning.
+
+                                                  "CAROLINE COPE."
+
+The Rev. Thomas Todd placed the letter in his pocket with an air of
+desperate resolve, and started forth for the Vicarage without another
+moment's delay. It was now or never--if he hesitated, even for an hour,
+he might be irretrievably lost.
+
+[Illustration: "MISS COPE WAS ENGAGED."]
+
+The first answer brought to him by the servant who opened the Vicarage
+door was not encouraging. "Miss Cope was engaged, and could not see Mr.
+Todd." But the curate dared not allow himself to be put off so easily.
+"Tell Miss Cope I _must_ see her on business of the most serious
+importance," he said; and the message was duly carried to the Vicar's
+daughter. That lady, after a moment's hesitation, felt herself unable
+any longer to resist enjoying a foretaste of her coming triumph, and
+ordered Mr. Todd to be admitted.
+
+The interview that followed confirmed the curate's worst fears. He told
+Miss Cope the whole story, and she flatly refused to believe a word of
+it. He begged her to go herself to the circus proprietor and his wife
+for proof of its truth, and she simply laughed in his face. He appealed
+to her honour to keep the story secret, and she coldly reminded him of
+the duty that devolved upon her, in her father's absence, of protecting
+the morals of his congregation.
+
+Then at last, beaten and baffled at all points, the unhappy curate
+played his final card. He offered the Vicar's daughter the best possible
+evidence of his sincerity by asking her to become his wife. The effect
+was magical. It was the first chance of a husband that had ever come to
+Caroline in her thirty-nine years of life, and she had an inward
+conviction that it would be the last. The secret she had just learnt was
+known to no one in the parish but herself, and so, after a brief
+pretence of further parley to save appearances, she jumped at the offer,
+and the curate left the Vicarage an engaged man. His last desperate
+throw had succeeded. He had saved his position and his reputation; but
+at what a cost he dared not even think.
+
+[Illustration: "SOMETHING VERY SERIOUSLY WRONG."]
+
+Within the next day or two, it became evident to all whom he met that
+there was something very seriously wrong with the Rev. Thomas Todd. His
+manner became first morose and abstracted, and then wild and eccentric.
+He was seen very little in the town, and when he did appear, his haggard
+face, his strange, absent air, and the unmistakable evidences of the
+profound depression that possessed him, were the objects of general
+remark. Some of the more charitable expressed a confident opinion that
+the curate had committed a crime; others decided, with more penetration,
+that he was going mad. From Miss Cope he kept carefully aloof. It had
+been arranged at that fatal interview that their engagement should be
+kept secret until the return of the Vicar, whose sanction must be
+obtained before the affair could be made public. Miss Cope was aware
+that the curate had two sermons to prepare in addition to his parish
+duties--for he would have to preach twice on Sunday owing to her
+father's absence; so she did not allow his non-appearance at the
+Vicarage on Friday or Saturday to greatly surprise her.
+
+If she could have seen the way in which the preparation of those sermons
+was proceeding, she might have found more cause for anxiety. Shut up in
+his room with some sheets of blank paper before him, the curate sat for
+hours together, staring vacantly at the wall before him, and
+occasionally giving vent to a loud, strange laugh. The evening of
+Saturday passed into night, and still he sat on, looking before him
+into the darkness with the same vacant stare, and uttering from time to
+time the same wild, hoarse chuckle.
+
+[Illustration: "THE REV. THOMAS TODD WAS STANDING ON HIS HEAD."]
+
+The light of Sunday morning, streaming into the room, fell upon a weird,
+dishevelled figure, that still stared fixedly at the wall, and every now
+and then muttered strange and wholly unclerical words and phrases. Still
+the hours wore on, until the sun rose high in the heavens, and the bells
+began to ring for church. Then came a knock at the curate's door. His
+landlady, surprised by his neglect of the breakfast hour, had been
+positively alarmed when he showed no sign of heeding the approach of
+church time. The knock was repeated; and then the clergyman sprang to
+his feet and unlocked the door.
+
+"Wait a moment," he cried, with a wild laugh. "_Now_ come in!"
+
+The landlady put her head in at the door, and uttered a shriek of horror
+and amazement. The Rev. Thomas Todd was standing on his head in the
+middle of the hearthrug.
+
+"God bless us and save us--the poor gentleman's gone clean out of his
+wits!"
+
+The curate's only reply was a shrill whoop, followed by an agile leap
+into an upright position, and a wild grab at the terrified lady, whose
+thirteen stone of solid matronhood he whirled round his head and tossed
+across the room as if it had been a feather-weight. Then, hatless and
+unkempt, he tore down stairs into the street, and started at a furious
+pace in the direction of S. Athanasius.
+
+It was three minutes to eleven, and the last stroke of the clanky
+church-bell had just died away in a series of unmusical vibrations. The
+townspeople, in all the added importance of Sunday clothes, gathered in
+an ever-thickening knot about the gates, greeting one another before
+they passed on into the church. At that moment, there floated towards
+them on the breeze a sudden, sharp shout that rooted them to the spot in
+positive consternation.
+
+[Illustration: "SCATTERED THEM RIGHT AND LEFT."]
+
+"Houp-la! Houp-la! Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!" And in another instant the
+unfortunate curate, tearing down the road, had flung himself among them
+and scattered them right and left by a series of vigorous and
+splendidly-executed somersaults. With a well-directed leap, and a wild
+cry of "Here we are again!" he vaulted lightly over the church gate, and
+began to run up the path towards the door, until, at last, the horrified
+onlookers awoke to the realities of the situation and half-a-dozen
+sturdy townsmen rushed upon and seized the unhappy man. Then a woman's
+piercing scream was heard, and the Vicar's daughter, who had just
+arrived on the scene, fell fainting to the ground.
+
+There was no service at S. Athanasius that morning, and the Rev. Thomas
+Todd was later on conveyed, still shouting fragments of circus dialogue,
+to the County Lunatic Asylum. The curate's mind had temporarily given
+way beneath the strain of the position in which he had found himself
+placed, and of the horrible future that lay before him, and his insanity
+had taken the form of an imaginary return to the scenes of his early
+life. When, some two years later, he was discharged cured, he attached
+himself to a mission about to start for the South African Coast, and
+left England without re-visiting Great Wabbleton.
+
+Long afterwards, Miss Caroline Cope, in a burst of confidence, one day
+related to her special friend, Miss Lavinia Murby, the doctor's
+daughter, how the Rev. Thomas Todd had proposed to her a few days before
+his melancholy seizure.
+
+"Ah, my dear, you see he couldn't have been right, even then," was that
+lady's sympathetic comment.
+
+[Illustration: "'HE COULDN'T HAVE BEEN RIGHT, EVEN THEN.'"]
+
+
+
+
+_People I Have Never Met._
+
+BY SCOTT RANKIN.
+
+    -----
+
+ZANGWILL.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+     "I will show this Anglo-Jewish community that I am a man to be
+     reckoned with. I will crush it--not it me. Then some day it will
+     find out its mistake; and it will seize the hem of my coat, and
+     beseech me to be its Rabbi. Then, and only then, shall we have true
+     Judaism in London.
+
+     "The folk who compose our picture are children of the Ghetto. If
+     they are not the children, they are at least the grandchildren of
+     the Ghetto."
+
+                                            --"CHILDREN OF THE GHETTO."
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration:    THE IDLER'S CLUB
+               SUBJECT FOR DISCUSSION
+                     "TIPPING."]
+
+
+[Sidenote: Joseph Hatton on the art of tipping.]
+
+Almost everything has been reduced to an art. You can learn journalism
+outside a newspaper, playwriting by theory, French without a master. How
+to succeed in literature and how not; both ways have been laid down for
+the student. There is scarcely an art or a habit you cannot learn in
+books. Etiquette, how to make up, stock-jobbing, acting, gardening, and
+a host of intellectual pursuits, have their rules and regulations; but
+the mysterious and delicate art of tipping as yet remains unexploited in
+the social ethics of this much-taught generation. It is high time that
+the proper method of giving tips should be defined, its laws codified,
+its many possibilities of error guarded against, and some system set
+forth whereby the tipper may give the greatest satisfaction to the
+tipped at the most moderate, if not the least, outlay in current coin of
+the realm. The art could be illustrated with many examples from the
+earliest times. Pelagia's tip to Hypatia's father was the dancer's
+cestus, which was jewelled with precious stones enough to stock the shop
+of a Bond Street jeweller of our own time. According to the truthful
+interpretation of the old English days which we find in the drama, the
+most popular method of tipping was to present your gold in a long,
+knitted purse, which you threw at the tippee's feet or slapped into the
+palm of his hand; but this system seems to have lapsed; and no fresh
+regulation has been established in the unwritten laws of the _douceur_,
+which goes back even before the days when extravagant and unwilling tips
+were often enforced with pincers, racks, and other imperative
+inventions. Monte Cristo gave wonderful tips, and Monte Carlo is lavish
+to this day. The genius that wrecked Panama has an open hand. Promoters
+of London companies know how to be liberal. Not much art is required, I
+believe, to distribute largess of this kind. Nor are certain classes of
+American aldermen difficult to deal with. The art that should be made
+most clear is how to pay your host's servants for your host's
+hospitality; how to show your gratitude to a newspaper man without
+hurting his _amour propre_; how to meet the requirements of the
+middleman of life and labour without "giving yourself away"; how to tip
+the parson when you are married; and, in this connection, one may remark
+the consolation of dying; the tippee does not trouble you at your own
+funeral.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: With reference to waiters, deans, and other public servants.]
+
+The waiter at public dinners is a very considerate person. He assists
+you in every possible way he can. With every dish he practically jogs
+your memory; and, as an accompaniment to the dessert, he informs you
+that he "must now leave"; is there "anything else he can do for you?" If
+you are of a reflective nature you may, in a moment of abstraction, rise
+from your seat and shake hands with him; but if, as a right-minded
+citizen, you have constantly in view the universal claim upon your
+purse, you will thank your friendly and condescending attendant, and pay
+him for the services he has rendered to his employer. You may in your
+thoughtlessness and abstraction have jeopardised the success of the
+waiter's arrangements for carrying off a certain bottle of wine which he
+had planted for convenient removal. How much you should give him is
+considered to depend upon the quality of the wine which you have been
+fully charged for with your ticket; and this question of cuisine and
+wine still further complicates the difficult adjustment of the rightful
+claims of the attendant and what is due to your own honour, not to
+mention your reputation as a _gourmet_. An irreverent American, after a
+first experience, I conclude, of English travel, said that you are safe
+in tipping any Britisher below the dignity of a bishop; but a
+fellow-countryman, guided by this opinion, felt very unhappy when,
+after being shown over a famous cathedral by the dean, he slipped
+half-a-sovereign into his very reverend guide's hand, and received, in
+return, an intimation that the poor's box was in the porch. I remember
+on one occasion, when I was investigating a question that called for
+special courtesy on the part of a public official, I was disturbed
+during my work with the question whether I might tip him, and, if so, to
+what extent. The subject almost "got on my nerves" before the inquiry,
+which lasted an hour or two, came to an end; at last I determined that
+it was a case for a tip. I gave him ten shillings. For a moment I
+thought I had offended him, and, remembering the dean and the poor box,
+was about to say, "Give it to a charity," when the official plaintively
+inquired if I couldn't "make it a sovereign?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: He discourses concerning the ethics of tipping.]
+
+Give up the idea that tipping will succumb to any agitation. So long as
+commodities have to be paid for in cash, and not in fine words and sweet
+smiles, tipping will exist. The moralist may rave against it, but ask
+him in what way his gratitude manifests itself when a railway porter
+politely relieves him of half-a-dozen bags, and deposits them in a snug
+corner, whilst he has barely time to take his ticket at the
+booking-office. It is surely impossible to abuse the same porter if, out
+of a feeling of recognition for favours previously received, he leaves
+the belated passenger to manage the best way he can under a cartload of
+shawls, rugs, hat and bonnet-boxes, to attend again to your comforts.
+You hardly sympathise with your fellow-traveller, although he may be
+using very strong language against the identical porter, in whose
+favour, for the second time, you part with a few coppers. It is the
+desire to secure the comforts and commodities provided by the activity
+of others that will perpetuate tipping. After all, this is not limited
+to menials. It is given, and unscrupulously accepted by all grades of
+society, and by all conditions of men. I have known a company director
+give to a titled nobody a berth promised to someone else, because he had
+been familiarly addressed by His Lordship in a public place, and had
+been "honoured" by a few minutes' conversation. That was not, of course,
+a tip in the ordinary sense of the word, but it amounted, however, to
+the same thing. It secured a good berth to his "Excellency." And what
+say you of the whiskies and waters, brandies and sodas, the champagne,
+oysters, luncheons, and dinners to which our good city men generously
+ask a would-be customer? That, I suppose, is called "paving the way to a
+good business." I have not unfrequently heard people regret that they
+were unable to refuse a favour in return for a civility. That civility
+was most likely a dinner, or even something less. Kisses distributed by
+ladies in hotly-contested constituencies, the promise of a Government
+post, an invitation to a party, a mere familiar recognition, a penny,
+are all varieties which make the thing so general.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: He believes the custom will die out with human nature.]
+
+Wedding presents are not given without an _arrière pensée_, and at
+Christmas our object is mostly to please the parents. Our indignation,
+however, is not roused by this, because we are in the habit, I suppose,
+of distributing and receiving such acknowledgments ourselves. We want to
+suppress small tips; in fact, such as are most wanted by the recipient,
+whose only source of revenue they constitute in many cases. We fail to
+realise that, were servants well paid, "tipping" would not take the form
+of an imposition. Employers, especially at hotels and restaurants,
+either give ridiculously low wages, or suppress these altogether, and in
+many establishments hire the tables to the waiters at so much a day or
+week for the privilege of serving. At present this custom has become so
+deeply rooted that it has given growth to a most perfect secret code of
+signs and marks by which each class of servants is informed how much he
+has to expect from the liberality of the inexperienced and unwary
+stranger. This applies especially to hotel servants, and has become the
+crying abuse against which we try to react. This code is not local, but
+has acquired an internationality which professors of Volapuk would be
+proud to claim for their language. I remember once an irascible old
+gentleman complaining bitterly against the incivility of the hotel
+servants, who never helped him with his traps. He found no exception to
+the rule except when his wanderings took him to some remote part of
+Scotland, where, he assured me, the "_braying of the socialist pedants
+had not yet been heard_." I suspected that my friend was not
+over-generous, and timidly sounded him on the point. His reply confirmed
+my suspicion. I thereupon showed him the cause of the servants'
+inattention, amounting sometimes even to rudeness--a _little chalk mark
+on each bag_. I advised him to carefully wipe that off after leaving the
+hotels. The effect was most satisfactory--my friend has had no reason
+to complain since, at least when he got into a hotel. The position of
+hotel labels also serves to indicate if anything can be expected from
+the traveller. Of course, this is not countenanced by "mine host," who
+dismisses the user of such messages, but as that man is generally a
+wide-awake and useful rogue, there is little doubt but that he is
+reinstated in his functions shortly after the traveller is gone. Beggars
+and tramps have a similar system of conveying to their _confrères_
+information as to the likely reception they may expect from the
+occupants of the different residences on the road. They never fail to
+warn them against dogs and other disagreeable surprise or dangers,
+should they by some unaccountable absent-mindedness forget that there is
+such a thing as the eighth commandment. In conclusion, _pourboire_,
+_buona mancia_, _backshish_, tipping or bribery, was born with man, and
+will only die out with him.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Giuseppe of the Cafe Doney, at Florence: his experience.]
+
+Ah! Milor, what do I think of "teeping?" What would become of me without
+it? In some forty or fifty years I shall be a rich man, and perhaps keep
+a _café_ myself, thanks to the benevolence and generosity of the
+American and English milors. At first I was a cabman, but in Italy no
+one gives the cabman a _pourboire_; so my friends said, "Ah! Giuseppe,
+you must make money somehow. Become a waiter, and you will grow rich."
+So they took me to our padrone, and he made me a waiter, and I am
+growing rich on "teeps." But it is not my own compatriots, Milor, who
+make me rich. When I attend one of them, he will only give me ten
+centimes (a penny), and if I attend two of them they will give me
+fifteen centimes between them. But the English and Americans will
+sometimes give me fifty or a hundred centimes at a time. But, alas! that
+happens very seldom. When I am in luck I save two hundred centimes a day
+(1s. 8d.), and shall, in a great many years, have a _café_ of my own.
+Perhaps Milor will assist? _Grazie._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: The head waiter at the ---- sets forth his views.]
+
+Instead of complaining against tipping, the public should oblige the
+employers to pay their servants more liberally. In modern
+restaurants--and I suppose the custom has come from Paris--waiters have
+to pay the employers sums varying from one to four shillings a day
+according to the number and position of tables they serve. Their work
+averages from fourteen to sixteen hours a day. It begins at eight, and
+sometimes long after midnight they are still at work. Out of their
+earnings they have to pay all breakages and washing, and, for the thirty
+to thirty-five shillings they earn a week, they have to put up, from a
+class of customers, with patience and a perpetual smile, more abuse than
+one in any other ten men would stand. It not unfrequently happens that a
+waiter would do without it rather than accept a tip which assumes the
+form of an insult. We look upon it as a remuneration due to us, and,
+after trying to satisfy the client, we do not see why he should think it
+an unbearable nuisance, and treat the recipient with contempt. In many
+cases, after exacting the most constant attention, and heaping unmerited
+abuse on the irresponsible waiter, the client who has most likely spent
+on himself enough to keep a family a whole week, grudges the sixpence he
+has to give the attendant, and makes him feel it by throwing the coppers
+down, accompanying the action by an insulting remark. Like all men whose
+business it is to minister to the comfort of others, many among us are
+very shrewd observers, and can tell at a glance what treatment we may
+expect from certain customers, and we behave accordingly. We are seldom
+mistaken in our judgment. Experience has taught us that the most
+generous, and at the same time most gentlemanly, "tippers" are the
+Israelitish Anglo-German financiers. There is a difference between them
+and the young spendthrift who inconsiderately throws away his money. No,
+sir, the Anglo-German banker, orders, goes carefully through the
+account, and then gives his money liberally. After him comes the
+Russian. The Englishman, who is next best, is closely followed by the
+French and German.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: His opinion of Americans as tippers.]
+
+The American is nowhere. It is a mistaken idea to believe that he is
+generous. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, but the majority
+of them come out here just to see the sights, and talk about them on
+their return. A certain sum is laid aside for the purpose, and I am sure
+they contrive to make economies upon it. The Americans are, besides,
+disagreeable to serve. They never lose the opportunity of making
+disparaging comparisons between their country and the old world. Our
+restaurants are country inns compared to theirs, their waiters are
+smarter, their services of better class, our cooking is miles behind
+theirs, and as to concoction of drinks, of course we have to take a
+back seat. We are also very slow. A steak, in Chicago, for instance, is
+cooked in about the fifteenth of the time required here. When it comes
+to paying, the American finds that everything is also dearer over here;
+gives very little or nothing to _that inattentive waiter_, threatens to
+lodge a complaint against him, and goes away satisfied that everyone is
+impressed by the grandeur of the Great Republic as represented by
+himself, one of its worthy citizens.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Of Scotchmen and millionaires.]
+
+In England, the Scotch are the least liberal. In Scotland, waiters and
+hotel servants are paid. An attempt to introduce in Edinburgh the
+continental system failed most ignominiously in 1886, and the
+enterprising _restaurateur_ had to revert to the local system, and
+replace all the former waiters, who ran back to London rather than be
+reduced to the dire necessity of going into the workhouse. Young men, as
+a rule, are more generous than elderly people, and the fair sex is, in
+general, very stingy. A gentleman accompanied by a lady, if she is only
+an acquaintance, is sure to tip generously, _pour la galerie_, although
+he may look as if he wanted to accompany every penny by a kick. But when
+the same person dines with his wife or sister, the remuneration is as
+small as decency can permit. When a waiter spots such a relation between
+a party of diners, he generally tries to escape the obligation of
+offering them a table. At the large restaurants we gauge the diners'
+liberality very frequently at one glance, and in any case form an
+accurate opinion of him by the way he orders his _menu_. We know whether
+we have to do with a gentleman or a cad, and whether his subsequent
+parsimoniousness is caused by cussedness or simply ignorance of the
+customs of such establishments, and we treat him in consequence. It is
+pitiful sometimes to see all the ruses employed by well-meaning people,
+unwilling to be thought unaccustomed to the life of a large restaurant,
+and my advice to such persons would be to remain natural rather than
+become ridiculous. The manner in which the tip is given varies according
+to the nationality and character of the donor. The most ostentatious
+among these is the South American millionaire, whose gift varies
+according to the number of people present. As a rule, the wealthy man is
+not generous.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: A commissionnaire can tell people's dispositions at sight.]
+
+I can say at first sight whether a person is of a kindly disposition,
+for I would rather assist such a person and get nothing than one who
+makes me feel the weight of his liberality. The amount a man may make
+depends a great deal on his wits. To forestall a gentleman's wishes,
+give him the necessary information, and to the point; to assist him when
+assistance is most needed, and not before, is what is most appreciated.
+When in a theatre I see a couple occupying a bad seat, when better ones
+are vacant, I make the suggestion, and would certainly be astonished if
+the gentleman did not acknowledge the hint. When the working classes do
+not syndicate they have to accept wages so ridiculously low that they
+are obliged to find some means of increasing their earnings. But will it
+ever be possible to suppress the "evil"? Allow me to doubt it. The thing
+is, therefore, to prevent tipping taking the form of an imposition. This
+can only be done by paying good wages.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Barr gives the straight tip.]
+
+A native of Cuba once said to me, with an air of proud superiority, "We
+have the yellow fever _always_ in Havana." I was unable to make any such
+boastful claim for North America, and so the Cuban rightly thought he
+had the advantage of me. They think nothing of the yellow fever in
+Havana, but when the malady is imported into Florida the people of that
+peninsula become panic-stricken. The yellow fever in the Southern States
+strikes terror. It seems to be worse in its effects when it enters the
+States than it is where they always have it. So it is with tipping. It
+is always present in Europe in a mild form, but periodically tipping
+swoops down upon the United States, and its effects are dreadful to
+contemplate. If tipping ever becomes epidemic in America, the
+unfortunate citizens will have to leave, and seek a cheaper country, for
+the haughty waiter in an American hotel scorns the humbler coins of the
+realm, and accepts nothing less than half a dollar. Happily, tipping
+has, up to date, been more or less of an exotic in America, but I have
+grave fears that the Chicago Exhibition, attracting as it does so many
+incurable tippers from Europe, will cause the disease to take firm root
+in the States, and entail years of suffering hereafter.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Summing up.]
+
+I do not agree with the member of the club who holds in one paragraph
+that Scotsmen are mean in the giving of tips. Speaking as a Scotsman
+myself, I admit that we like to go the whole distance from Liverpool
+Street to Charing Cross for our penny. We desire to get the worth of
+our bawbee. And it is a cold day when we don't. But it must be
+remembered that a Scotsman is conscientious, and he knows that tipping
+is an indefensible vice, so he discourages it as much as possible, being
+compelled by custom to fall in with it. Then, again, the man who claims
+that Americans are not liberal doesn't know what he is talking about.
+The trouble with the American is that he does not know the exact amount
+to give, and that bothers him, and causes him to curse the custom in
+choice and varied language. Speaking now as an American, I will give a
+tip right here. If Conan Doyle, or George Meredith, or some author in
+whom Americans have confidence, would get out a book entitled, say, "The
+Right Tip, or Tuppence on the Shilling," giving exactly the correct sum
+to pay on all occasions, Americans would buy up the whole edition and
+bless the author. I think Americans are altogether too lavish with their
+tips, and thus make it difficult for us poorer people, whom nobody tips,
+to get along. A friend of mine, on leaving one of the big London hotels,
+changed several five pound notes into half-crowns, and distributed these
+coins right and left all the way from his rooms to the carriage, giving
+one or more to every person who looked as if he would accept. He met no
+refusals, and departed amidst much _éclat_. He thought he had done the
+square thing, as he expressed it, but I looked on the action as
+corrupting and indefensible. He deserves to have his name blazoned here
+as a warning, but I shall not mention it, merely contenting myself by
+saying that he was formerly a United States senator, was at that time
+Minister to Spain, and is at the present moment President of the World's
+Fair.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     The portrait of Mrs. Henniker, which appeared in _The Idler_ for
+     May--"LIONS IN THEIR DENS": V. THE LORD LIEUTENANT AT DUBLIN
+     CASTLE--was from a photograph taken by Messrs. WERNER AND SON, OF
+     DUBLIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July
+1893, by Various
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLER MAGAZINE ***
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+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Idler Magazine, An Illustrated Monthly, July 1893.
+    </title>
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+<pre>
+
+Project Gutenberg's The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July 1893, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July 1893
+       An Illustrated Monthly
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: May 7, 2008 [EBook #25372]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLER MAGAZINE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines,
+Jonathan Ingram, Anne Storer and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<p class="notes">Transcriber&#8217;s Notes: Title and Table of Contents added.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+
+<div class="box">
+
+<h1>THE IDLER MAGAZINE.</h1>
+<p style="font-size: 120%;" class="center"><strong>AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY.<br /><br />
+July 1893.</strong></p>
+
+<hr style='width: 65%;' />
+
+
+<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+ <a href="#Page_578">THE WOMAN OF THE SAETER.</a><br />
+     by Jerome K. Jerome.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_594">ALPHONSE DAUDET AT HOME.</a><br />
+     by Marie Adelaide Belloc.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_607">THE DISMAL THRONG.</a><br />
+     by Robert Buchanan.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_613">IN THE HANDS OF JEFFERSON.</a><br />
+     by Eden Phillpotts.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_628">MY FIRST BOOK.</a><br />
+     by I. Zangwill.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_642">BY THE LIGHT OF THE LAMP.</a><br />
+     by Hilda Newman.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_648">MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST.</a><br />
+     III.&mdash;ONE DAY.<br />
+     by Sophie Wassilieff.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_661">A SLAVE OF THE RING.</a><br />
+     by Alfred Berlyn.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_673">PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET.</a><br />
+     by Scott Rankin.<br /><br />
+
+ <a href="#Page_674">THE IDLER&#8217;S CLUB</a><br />
+     &ldquo;TIPPING.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_578" id="Page_578">[Pg 578]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 327px;">
+<img src="images/img578.jpg" width="327" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the vengeance of hund.</span>
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_579" id="Page_579">[Pg 579]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>The Woman of the Saeter.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Jerome K. Jerome.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by A. S. Boyd.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p>Wild-Reindeer stalking is hardly so exciting a sport as the evening&#8217;s
+verandah talk in Norroway hotels would lead the trustful traveller to
+suppose. Under the charge of your guide, a very young man with the
+dreamy, wistful eyes of those who live in valleys, you leave the
+farmstead early in the forenoon, arriving towards twilight at the
+desolate hut which, for so long as you remain upon the uplands, will be
+your somewhat cheerless headquarters.</p>
+
+<p>Next morning, in the chill, mist-laden dawn you rise; and, after a
+breakfast of coffee and dried fish, shoulder your Remington, and step
+forth silently into the raw, damp air; the guide locking the door behind
+you, the key grating harshly in the rusty lock.</p>
+
+<p>For hour after hour you toil over the steep, stony ground, or wind
+through the pines, speaking in whispers, lest your voice reach the quick
+ears of your prey, that keeps its head ever pressed against the wind.
+Here and there, in the hollows of the hills, lie wide fields of snow,
+over which you pick your steps thoughtfully, listening to the smothered
+thunder of the torrent, tunnelling its way beneath your feet, and
+wondering whether the frozen arch above it be at all points as firm as
+is desirable. Now and again, as in single file you walk cautiously along
+some jagged ridge, you catch glimpses of the green world, three thousand
+feet below you; though you gaze not long upon the view, for your
+attention is chiefly directed to watching the footprints of the guide,
+lest by deviating to the right or left you find yourself at one stride
+back in the valley&mdash;or, to be more correct, are found there.</p>
+
+<p>These things you do, and as exercise they are healthful and
+invigorating. But a reindeer you never see, and unless, overcoming the
+prejudices of your British-bred conscience, you care to take an
+occasional pop at a fox, you had better have left your rifle at the hut,
+and, instead, have brought a stick, which would have been helpful.
+Notwithstanding which the guide continues sanguine, and in broken
+English, helped out by stirring gesture, tells of the terrible slaughter
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_580" id="Page_580">[Pg 580]</a></span>
+generally done by sportsmen under his superintendence, and of the vast
+herds that generally infest these fjelds; and when you grow sceptical
+upon the subject of Reins he whispers alluringly of Bears.</p>
+
+<p>Once in a way you will come across a track, and will follow it
+breathlessly for hours, and it will lead to a sheer precipice. Whether
+the explanation is suicide, or a reprehensible tendency on the part of
+the animal towards practical joking, you are left to decide for
+yourself. Then, with many rough miles between you and your rest, you
+abandon the chase.</p>
+
+<p>But I speak from personal experience merely.</p>
+
+<p>All day long we had tramped through the pitiless rain, stopping only for
+an hour at noon to eat some dried venison, and smoke a pipe beneath the
+shelter of an overhanging cliff. Soon afterwards Michael knocked over a
+ryper (a bird that will hardly take the trouble to hop out of your way)
+with his gun-barrel, which incident cheered us a little, and, later on,
+our flagging spirits were still further revived by the discovery of
+apparently very recent deer-tracks. These we followed, forgetful, in our
+eagerness, of the lengthening distance back to the hut, of the fading
+daylight, of the gathering mist. The track led us higher and higher,
+further and further into the mountains, until on the shores of a
+desolate rock-bound vand it abruptly ended, and we stood staring at one
+another, and the snow began to fall.</p>
+
+<p>Unless in the next half-hour we could chance upon a saeter, this meant
+passing the night upon the mountain. Michael and I looked at the guide,
+but though, with characteristic Norwegian sturdiness, he put a bold face
+upon it, we could see that in that deepening darkness he knew no more
+than we did. Wasting no time on words, we made straight for the nearest
+point of descent, knowing that any human habitation must be far below
+us.</p>
+
+<p>Down we scrambled, heedless of torn clothes and bleeding hands, the
+darkness pressing closer round us. Then suddenly it became black&mdash;black
+as pitch&mdash;and we could only hear each other. Another step might mean
+death. We stretched out our hands, and felt each other. Why we spoke in
+whispers, I do not know, but we seemed afraid of our own voices. We
+agreed there was nothing for it but to stop where we were till morning,
+clinging to the short grass; so we lay there side by side, for what may
+have been five minutes or may have been an hour. Then, attempting to
+turn, I lost my grip and rolled. I made convulsive efforts to clutch the
+ground, but the incline was too steep. How far I fell I could not say,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_581" id="Page_581">[Pg 581]</a></span>
+but at last something stopped me. I felt it cautiously with my foot; it
+did not yield, so I twisted myself round and touched it with my hand. It
+seemed planted firmly in the earth. I passed my arm along to the right,
+then to the left. Then I shouted with joy. It was a fence.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 318px;">
+<img src="images/img581.jpg" width="318" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;clinging to the short grass.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Rising and groping about me, I found an opening, and passed through, and
+crept forward with palms outstretched until I touched the logs of a hut;
+then, feeling my way round, discovered the door, and knocked. There came
+no response, so I knocked louder; then pushed, and the heavy woodwork
+yielded, groaning. But the darkness within was even darker than the
+darkness without. The others had contrived to crawl down and join me.
+Michael struck a wax vesta and held it up, and slowly the room came out
+of the darkness and stood round us.</p>
+
+<p>Then something rather startling happened. Giving one swift glance about
+him, our guide uttered a cry, and rushed out into the night, and
+disappeared. We followed to the door, and called after him, but only a
+voice came to us out of the blackness, and the only words that we could
+catch, shrieked back in terror, were: &ldquo;The woman of the saeter&mdash;the
+woman of the saeter.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Some foolish superstition about the place, I suppose,&rdquo; said Michael.
+&ldquo;In these mountain solitudes men breed ghosts for company. Let us make a
+fire. Perhaps, when he sees the light, his desire for food and shelter
+may get the better of his fears.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>We felt about in the small enclosure round the house, and gathered
+juniper and birch-twigs, and kindled a fire upon the open stove built in
+the corner of the room. Fortunately, we had some dried reindeer and
+bread in our bag, and on that and the ryper,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_582" id="Page_582">[Pg 582]</a></span>
+and the contents of our
+flasks, we supped. Afterwards, to while away the time, we made an
+inspection of the strange eyrie we had lighted on.</p>
+
+<p>It was an old log-built saeter. Some of these mountain farmsteads are as
+old as the stone ruins of other countries. Carvings of strange beasts
+and demons were upon its blackened rafters, and on the lintel, in runic
+letters, ran this legend: &ldquo;Hund builded me in the days of Haarfager.&rdquo;
+The house consisted of two large apartments. Originally, no doubt, these
+had been separate dwellings standing beside one another, but they were
+now connected by a long, low gallery. Most of the scanty furniture was
+almost as ancient as the walls themselves, but many articles of a
+comparatively recent date had been added. All was now, however, rotting
+and falling into decay.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 347px;">
+<img src="images/img582.jpg" width="347" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;by the dull glow of the<br />
+burning juniper twigs.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly by its last occupants.
+Household utensils lay as they were left, rust and dirt encrusted on
+them. An open book, limp and mildewed, lay face downwards on the table,
+while many others were scattered about both rooms, together with much
+paper, scored with faded ink. The curtains hung in shreds about the
+windows; a woman&#8217;s cloak, of an antiquated fashion, drooped from a nail
+behind the door. In an oak chest we found a tumbled heap of yellow
+letters. They were of various dates, extending over a period of four
+months, and with them, apparently intended to receive them, lay a large
+envelope, inscribed with an address in London that has since
+disappeared.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_583" id="Page_583">[Pg 583]</a></span>
+Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples, we read them by the dull
+glow of the burning juniper twigs, and, as we lay aside the last of
+them, there rose from the depths below us a wailing cry, and all night
+long it rose and died away, and rose again, and died away again; whether
+born of our brain or of some human thing, God knows.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>And these, a little altered and shortened, are the letters:&mdash;</p>
+
+
+<p class="center"><em>Extract from first letter:</em></p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 264px;">
+<img src="images/img583.jpg" width="264" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;i spend as much time<br />
+as i can with her.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I cannot tell you, my dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is
+to me after the racket and fret of town. I am almost quite recovered
+already, and am growing stronger every day; and, joy of joys, my brain
+has come back to me, fresher and more vigorous, I think, for its
+holiday. In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely, and the
+difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic. We are perched
+upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain. On one side the rock rises
+almost perpendicularly, piercing the sky; while on the other, two
+thousand feet below us, the torrent hurls itself into black waters of
+the fiord. The house consists of two rooms&mdash;or, rather, it is two cabins
+connected by a passage. The larger one we use as a living room, and the
+other is our sleeping apartment. We have no servant, but do everything
+for ourselves. I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely. The nearest
+human habitation is eight miles away, across the mountain, and not a
+soul comes near us. I spend as much time as I can with her, however,
+during the day, and make up for it by working at night after she has
+gone to sleep, and when I question her, she only laughs, and answers
+that she loves to have me all to herself. (Here you will smile
+cynically, I know, and say, &lsquo;Humph, I wonder will she say the same when
+they have been married
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_584" id="Page_584">[Pg 584]</a></span>
+six years instead of six months.&rsquo;) At the rate I
+am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the end of
+August, and then, my dear fellow, you must try and come over, and we
+will walk and talk together &lsquo;amid these storm-reared temples of the
+gods.&rsquo; I have felt a new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to
+&lsquo;cudgel my brains,&rsquo; as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will
+make my name.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+<em>Part of the third letter, the second being mere talk about the book<br />
+(a history apparently) that the man was writing:</em></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My dear Joyce,&mdash;I have written you two letters&mdash;this will make the
+third&mdash;but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been
+expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are
+kindly people towards strangers&mdash;to say nothing of the inducements of
+trade. A fortnight having passed, however, and the commissariat question
+having become serious, I yesterday set out before dawn, and made my way
+down to the valley; and this gives me something to tell you. Nearing the
+village, I met a peasant woman. To my intense surprise, instead of
+returning my salutation, she stared at me, as if I were some wild
+animal, and shrank away from me as far as the width of the road would
+permit. In the village the same experience awaited me. The children ran
+from me, the people avoided me. At last a grey-haired old man appeared
+to take pity on me, and from him I learnt the explanation of the
+mystery. It seems there is a strange superstition attaching to this
+house in which we are living. My things were brought up here by the two
+men who accompanied me from Dronthiem, but the natives are afraid to go
+near the place, and prefer to keep as far as possible from anyone
+connected with it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The story is that the house was built by one Hund, &lsquo;a maker of runes&rsquo;
+(one of the old saga writers, no doubt), who lived here with his young
+wife. All went peacefully until, unfortunately for him, a certain maiden
+stationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him.&mdash;Forgive me if I am
+telling you what you know, but a &lsquo;saeter&rsquo; is the name given to the
+upland pastures to which, during the summer, are sent the cattle,
+generally under the charge of one or more of the maids. Here for three
+months these girls will live in their lonely huts entirely shut off from
+the world. Customs change little in this land. Two or three such
+stations are within climbing distance of this house, at this day, looked
+after by the farmers&#8217; daughters, as in the days of Hund, &lsquo;maker of
+runes.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_585" id="Page_585">[Pg 585]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would come and tap
+lightly at Hund&#8217;s door. Hund had built himself two cabins, one behind
+the other (these are now, as I think I have explained to you, connected
+by a passage); the smaller one was the homestead, in the other he carved
+and wrote, so that while the young wife slept the &lsquo;maker of runes&rsquo; and
+the saeter woman sat whispering.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 245px;">
+<img src="images/img585.jpg" width="245" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;the woman would tap lightly at hund&#8217;s door.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One night, however, the wife learnt all things, but said no word. Then,
+as now, the ravine in front of the enclosure was crossed by a slight
+bridge of planks, and over this bridge the woman of the saeter passed
+and re-passed each night. On a day when Hund had gone down to fish in
+the fiord, the wife took an axe, and hacked and hewed at the bridge, yet
+it still looked firm and solid; and that night, as Hund sat waiting in
+his workshop, there struck upon his ears a piercing cry, and a crashing
+of logs and rolling rock, and then again the dull roaring of the torrent
+far below.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But the woman did not die unavenged, for that winter a man, skating far
+down the fiord, noticed a curious object embedded in the ice; and when,
+stooping, he looked closer, he saw two corpses, one gripping the other
+by the throat, and the bodies were the bodies of Hund and his young
+wife.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Since then, they say the woman of the saeter haunts Hund&#8217;s house, and
+if she sees a light within she taps upon the door, and no man may keep
+her out. Many, at different times, have tried to occupy the house, but
+strange tales are told of them. &lsquo;Men do not live at Hund&#8217;s saeter,&rsquo; said
+my old grey-haired friend, concluding his tale, &lsquo;they die there.&rsquo; I have
+persuaded some of the braver of the villagers to bring what provisions
+and other necessaries we require up to a plateau about a mile from the
+house and leave them there. That is the most I have been able to do. It
+comes somewhat as a shock to one to find men and women&mdash;fairly educated
+and intelligent as many of them are&mdash;slaves to fears that one would
+expect a child to laugh at. But there is no reasoning with
+superstition.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_586" id="Page_586">[Pg 586]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="center">
+<em>Extract from the same letter, but from a part seemingly written
+a day or two later:</em></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At home I should have forgotten such a tale an hour after I had heard
+it, but these mountain fastnesses seem strangely fit to be the last
+stronghold of the supernatural. The woman haunts me already. At night,
+instead of working, I find myself listening for her tapping at the door;
+and yesterday an incident occurred that makes me fear for my own common
+sense. I had gone out for a long walk alone, and the twilight was
+thickening into darkness as I neared home. Suddenly looking up from my
+reverie, I saw, standing on a knoll the other side of the ravine, the
+figure of a woman. She held a cloak about her head, and I could not see
+her face. I took off my cap, and called out a good-night to her, but she
+never moved or spoke. Then, God knows why, for my brain was full of
+other thoughts at the time, a clammy chill crept over me, and my tongue
+grew dry and parched. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her across
+the yawning gorge that divided us, and slowly she moved away, and passed
+into the gloom; and I continued my way. I have said nothing to Muriel,
+and shall not. The effect the story has had upon myself warns me not
+to.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+<p class="center">
+<em>From a letter dated eleven days later:</em></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She has come. I have known she would since that evening I saw her on
+the mountain, and last night she came, and we have sat and looked into
+each other&#8217;s eyes. You will say, of course, that I am mad&mdash;that I have
+not recovered from my fever&mdash;that I have been working too hard&mdash;that I
+have heard a foolish tale, and that it has filled my overstrung brain
+with foolish fancies&mdash;I have told myself all that. But the thing came,
+nevertheless&mdash;a creature of flesh and blood? a creature of air? a
+creature of my own imagination? what matter; it was real to me.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It came last night, as I sat working, alone. Each night I have waited
+for it, listened for it&mdash;longed for it, I know now. I heard the passing
+of its feet upon the bridge, the tapping of its hand upon the door,
+three times&mdash;tap, tap, tap. I felt my loins grow cold, and a pricking
+pain about my head, and I gripped my chair with both hands, and waited,
+and again there came the tapping&mdash;tap, tap, tap. I rose and slipped the
+bolt of the door leading to the other room, and again I waited, and
+again there came the tapping&mdash;tap, tap, tap. Then I opened the heavy
+outer door, and the wind rushed past me, scattering my papers, and the
+woman entered in, and I closed the door behind her. She threw
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_587" id="Page_587">[Pg 587]</a></span> her hood
+back from her head, and unwound a kerchief from about her neck, and laid
+it on the table. Then she crossed and sat before the fire, and I noticed
+her bare feet were damp with the night dew.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 316px;">
+<img src="images/img587.jpg" width="316" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;the woman entered.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I stood over against her and gazed at her, and she smiled at me&mdash;a
+strange, wicked smile, but I could have laid my soul at her feet. She
+never spoke or moved, and neither did I feel the need of spoken words,
+for I understood the meaning of those upon the Mount when they said,
+&lsquo;Let us make here tabernacles: it is good for us to be here.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_588" id="Page_588">[Pg 588]</a></span>
+&ldquo;How long a time passed thus I do not know, but suddenly the woman held
+her hand up, listening, and there came a faint sound from the other
+room. Then swiftly she drew her hood about her face and passed out,
+closing the door softly behind her; and I drew back the bolt of the
+inner door and waited, and hearing nothing more, sat down, and must have
+fallen asleep in my chair.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I awoke, and instantly there flashed through my mind the thought of the
+kerchief the woman had left behind her, and I started from my chair to
+hide it. But the table was already laid for breakfast, and my wife sat
+with her elbows on the table and her head between her hands, watching me
+with a look in her eyes that was new to me.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She kissed me, though her lips were a little cold, and I argued to
+myself that the whole thing must have been a dream. But later in the
+day, passing the open door when her back was towards me, I saw her take
+the kerchief from a locked chest and look at it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have told myself it must have been a kerchief of her own, and that
+all the rest has been my imagination&mdash;that if not, then my strange
+visitant was no spirit, but a woman, and that, if human thing knows
+human thing, it was no creature of flesh and blood that sat beside me
+last night. Besides, what woman would she be? The nearest saeter is a
+three hours&#8217; climb to a strong man, the paths are dangerous even in
+daylight: what woman would have found them in the night? What woman
+would have chilled the air around her, and have made the blood flow cold
+through all my veins? Yet if she come again I will speak to her. I will
+stretch out my hand and see whether she be mortal thing or only air.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+<p class="center"><em>The fifth letter:</em></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My dear Joyce,&mdash;Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is
+doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read to
+you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may one
+day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you, can
+laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide away&mdash;putting
+the words down on paper saves my screaming them aloud.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She comes each night now, taking the same seat beside the embers, and
+fixing upon me those eyes, with the hell-light in them, that burn into
+my brain; and at rare times she smiles, and all my Being passes out of
+me, and is hers. I make no attempt to
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_589" id="Page_589">[Pg 589]</a></span>
+work. I sit listening for her
+footsteps on the creaking bridge, for the rustling of her feet upon the
+grass, for the tapping of her hand upon the door. No word is uttered
+between us. Each day I say: &lsquo;When she comes to-night I will speak to
+her. I will stretch out my hand and touch her.&rsquo; Yet when she enters, all
+thought and will goes out from me.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 318px;">
+<img src="images/img589.jpg" width="318" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;i stood gazing at her.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Last night, as I stood gazing at her, my soul filled with her wondrous
+beauty as a lake with moonlight, her lips parted, and she started from
+her chair, and, turning, I thought I saw a white face pressed against
+the window, but as I looked it vanished.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_590" id="Page_590">[Pg 590]</a></span>
+Then she drew her cloak about
+her, and passed out. I slid back the bolt I always draw now, and stole
+into the other room, and, taking down the lantern, held it above the
+bed. But Muriel&#8217;s eyes were closed as if in sleep.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+<p class="center"><em>Extract from the sixth letter:</em></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is not the night I fear, but the day. I hate the sight of this woman
+with whom I live, whom I call &lsquo;wife.&rsquo; I shrink from the blow of her cold
+lips, the curse of her stony eyes. She has seen, she has learnt; I feel
+it, I know it. Yet she winds her arms around my neck, and calls me
+sweetheart, and smooths my hair with her soft, false hands. We speak
+mocking words of love to one another, but I know her cruel eyes are ever
+following me. She is plotting her revenge, and I hate her, I hate her, I
+hate her!&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+<p class="center"><em>Part of the seventh letter:</em></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This morning I went down to the fiord. I told her I should not be back
+until the evening. She stood by the door watching me until we were mere
+specks to one another, and a promontory of the mountain shut me from
+view. Then, turning aside from the track, I made my way, running and
+stumbling over the jagged ground, round to the other side of the
+mountain, and began to climb again. It was slow, weary work. Often I had
+to go miles out of my road to avoid a ravine, and twice I reached a high
+point only to have to descend again. But at length I crossed the ridge,
+and crept down to a spot from where, concealed, I could spy upon my own
+house. She&mdash;my wife&mdash;stood by the flimsy bridge. A short hatchet, such
+as butchers use, was in her hand. She leant against a pine trunk, with
+her arm behind her, as one stands whose back aches with long stooping in
+some cramped position; and even at that distance I could see the cruel
+smile about her lips.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Then I recrossed the ridge, and crawled down again, and, waiting until
+evening, walked slowly up the path. As I came in view of the house she
+saw me, and waved her handkerchief to me, and, in answer, I waved my
+hat, and shouted curses at her that the wind whirled away into the
+torrent. She met me with a kiss, and I breathed no hint to her that I
+had seen. Let her devil&#8217;s work remain undisturbed. Let it prove to me
+what manner of thing this is that haunts me. If it be a Spirit, then the
+bridge will bear it safely; if it be woman&mdash;&mdash;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_591" id="Page_591">[Pg 591]</a></span>
+&ldquo;But I dismiss the thought. If it be human thing why does it sit gazing
+at me, never speaking; why does my tongue refuse to question it; why
+does all power forsake me in its presence, so that I stand as in a
+dream? Yet if it be Spirit, why do I hear the passing of her feet; and
+why does the night-rain glisten on her hair?</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 255px;">
+<img src="images/img591.jpg" width="255" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;to the utmost edge.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I force myself back into my chair. It is far into the night, and I am
+alone, waiting, listening. If it be Spirit, she will come to me; and if
+it be woman, I shall hear her cry above the storm&mdash;unless it be a demon
+mocking me.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have heard the cry. It rose, piercing and shrill, above the storm,
+above the riving and rending of the bridge, above the downward crashing
+of the logs and loosened stones. I hear it as I listen now. It is
+cleaving its way upward from the depths below. It is wailing through the
+room as I sit writing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have crawled upon my belly to the utmost edge of the still standing
+pier until I could feel with my hand the jagged splinters left by the
+fallen planks, and have looked down. But the chasm was full to the brim
+with darkness. I shouted, but the wind shook my voice into mocking
+laughter. I sit here, feebly striking at the madness that is creeping
+nearer and nearer to me. I tell myself the whole thing is but the fever
+in my brain. The bridge was rotten. The storm was strong. The cry is but
+a single one among the many voices of the mountain. Yet still I listen,
+and it rises, clear and shrill, above the moaning of the pines,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_592" id="Page_592">[Pg 592]</a></span> above
+the mighty sobbing of the waters. It beats like blows upon my skull, and
+I know that she will never come again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p class="center"><em>Extract from the last letter:</em></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall address an envelope to you, and leave it among them. Then,
+should I never come back, some chance wanderer may one day find and post
+them to you, and you will know.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My books and writings remain untouched. We sit together of a
+night&mdash;this woman I call &lsquo;wife&rsquo; and I&mdash;she holding in her hands some
+knitted thing that never grows longer by a single stitch, and I with a
+volume before me that is ever open at the same page. And day and night
+we watch each other stealthily, moving to and fro about the silent
+house; and at times, looking round swiftly, I catch the smile upon her
+lips before she has time to smooth it away.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We speak like strangers about this and that, making talk to hide our
+thoughts. We make a pretence of busying ourselves about whatever will
+help us to keep apart from one another.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At night, sitting here between the shadows and the dull glow of the
+smouldering twigs, I sometimes think I hear the tapping I have learnt to
+listen for, and I start from my seat, and softly open the door and look
+out. But only the Night stands there. Then I close-to the latch, and
+she&mdash;the living woman&mdash;asks me in her purring voice what sound I heard,
+hiding a smile as she stoops low over her work, and I answer lightly,
+and, moving towards her, put my arm about her, feeling her softness and
+her suppleness, and wondering, supposing I held her close to me with one
+arm while pressing her from me with the other, how long before I should
+hear the cracking of her bones.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;For here, amid these savage solitudes, I also am grown savage. The old
+primeval passions of love and hate stir within me, and they are fierce
+and cruel and strong, beyond what you men of the later ages could
+understand. The culture of the centuries has fallen from me as a flimsy
+garment whirled away by the mountain wind; the old savage instincts of
+the race lie bare. One day I shall twine my fingers about her full white
+throat, and her eyes will slowly come towards me, and her lips will
+part, and the red tongue creep out; and backwards, step by step, I shall
+push her before me, gazing the while upon her bloodless face, and it
+will be my turn to smile. Backwards through the open door, backwards
+along the garden path between the juniper bushes, backwards till her
+heels are overhanging the ravine, and she grips
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_593" id="Page_593">[Pg 593]</a></span>
+life with nothing but
+her little toes, I shall force her, step by step, before me. Then I
+shall lean forward, closer, closer, till I kiss her purpling lips, and
+down, down, down, past the startled sea-birds, past the white spray of
+the foss, past the downward peeping pines, down, down, down, we will go
+together, till we find my love where she lies sleeping beneath the
+waters of the fiord.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+<p>With these words ended the last letter, unsigned. At the first streak of
+dawn we left the house, and, after much wandering, found our way back to
+the valley. But of our guide we heard no news. Whether he remained still
+upon the mountain, or whether by some false step he had perished upon
+that night, we never learnt.</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_594" id="Page_594">[Pg 594]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 311px;">
+<img src="images/img594.jpg" width="311" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">alphonse daudet.</span>
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_595" id="Page_595">[Pg 595]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>Alphonse Daudet at Home.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Marie Adelaide Belloc.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Jan Berg, J. Barnard Davis, and E. M. Jessop.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p>M. and Madame Alphonse Daudet&mdash;for it is impossible to mention the great
+French writer without also immediately recalling the personality of the
+lady who has been his best friend, his tireless collaboratrice, and his
+constant companion during the last twenty-five years&mdash;have made their
+home on the top storey of a fine stately house in the Rue de Belle
+Chasse, a narrow old-world street running from the Boulevard Saint
+Germain up into the Quartier Latin.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 218px;">
+<img src="images/img595.jpg" width="218" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">madame daudet.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Like most houses on the left bank of the Seine, the &ldquo;hotel&rdquo; is built
+round a large courtyard, the Daudets&#8217; pretty <em>appartement</em> being
+situated on the side furthest from the street, and commanding a splendid
+view of Southern Paris, whilst in the immediate foreground is one of
+those peaceful, quiet gardens, owned by some of the old Paris religious
+foundations still left undisturbed by the march of Republican time.</p>
+
+<p>The study in which Alphonse Daudet does all his work, and receives his
+more intimate friends, is opposite the hall door, but a strict watch is
+kept by Madame Daudet&#8217;s faithful servants, and no one is allowed to
+break in upon the privacy of <em>le ma&icirc;tre</em> without some good and
+sufficient reason. Few writers are so personally popular with their
+readers as is Alphonse Daudet; there is about most of his books a
+strange magnetic charm, and every post brings him quaint, curious, and
+often pathetic, epistles from men and women all over the world, and of
+every nationality, discussing his characters, suggesting alterations,
+offering him plots, and
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_596" id="Page_596">[Pg 596]</a></span>
+asking his advice on their own most intimate
+cases of conscience, whilst, if he were to grant all the requests for
+personal interviews which come to him day by day, he would literally
+have not a moment for work or leisure.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 399px;">
+<img src="images/img596.jpg" width="399" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">daudet at work.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>But to those who have the good fortune of his acquaintance, M. Daudet is
+the most delightful and courteous of hosts, and, though rarely alluding
+to his own work in conversation, he will always answer those questions
+put to him to the best of his ability, and as one who has thought much
+and deeply on most subjects of human interest.</p>
+
+<p>The first glance shows you that Daudet&#8217;s study is a real work room;
+there is no straining after effect; the plain, comfortable furniture,
+including the large solid writing table covered with papers, proofs,
+literary biblots, and the various instruments necessary to his craft,
+were made and presented to him by a number of workmen, his military
+comrades during the war, and serve to perpetually remind him of what, he
+says, has been the most instructive and intensely interesting period of
+his life. &ldquo;That terrible year,&rdquo; I have heard him exclaim more than once,
+&ldquo;taught me many things. It was then for the first time that I learned to
+appreciate our workpeople, <em>le peuple</em>. Had it not been for what I then
+went through, one whole side of good human nature would have been shut
+to me. The Paris <em>ouvrier</em> is a splendid fellow, and among my best
+friends I reckon some of those who fought by my side in 1870.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>During those same eventful months M. Daudet made the acquaintance of the
+man who was afterwards to prove his most
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_597" id="Page_597">[Pg 597]</a></span>
+indefatigable helper; it was
+between one of the long waits outside the fortifications. To his
+surprise, the novelist saw a young soldier reading a Latin book. In
+answer to a question, the <em>pioupiou</em> explained that he had been brought
+up to be a priest, but had finally changed his mind and become a
+workman. Now, the ex seminarist is M. Daudet&#8217;s daily companion and
+literary agent; it is he who makes all the necessary arrangements with
+editors and publishers, and several of Daudet&#8217;s later writings have been
+dictated to him.</p>
+
+<p>All that refers to a great writer&#8217;s methods cannot but be of interest.
+Daudet&#8217;s novels are really human documents, for from early youth he has
+put down from day to day, almost from hour to hour, all that he has
+seen, heard, and done. He calls his note-books &ldquo;my memory.&rdquo; When about
+to start a new novel he draws out a general plan, then he copies out all
+the incidents from his note-books which he thinks will be of value to
+him for the story. The next step is to make out a rough list of
+chapters, and then, with infinite care, and constant corrections, he
+begins writing out the book, submitting each page to his wife&#8217;s
+criticism, and discussing with her the working out of every incident,
+and the arrangement of every episode. Unlike most novelists, M. Daudet
+does not care to always write on the same paper, and his manuscripts are
+not all written on paper of the same size. Of late he has been using
+some large, rough hand-made sheets, which Victor Hugo had specially made
+for his own use, and which have been given to M. Daudet by Georges Hugo,
+who knew what a pleasure his grandfather would have taken in the thought
+that any of his literary leavings would have been useful to his little
+Jeanne&#8217;s father-in-law, for it will be remembered that L&eacute;on Daudet, the
+novelist&#8217;s eldest child, married some three years ago &ldquo;Peach Blossom&rdquo;
+Hugo, for whom was written <em>L&#8217;Art d&#8217;&ecirc;tre Grand-p&egrave;re</em>.</p>
+
+<p>Although M. Daudet takes precious care of his little note-books, both
+past and present, he has never troubled himself much as to what became
+of the fair copies of his novels. They remain in the printers&#8217; and
+publishers&#8217; hands, and will probably some day attain a fabulous value.</p>
+
+<p>His handwriting is clear, and somewhat feminine in form, and he always
+uses a steel pen. Till his health broke down he wrote every word of his
+manuscripts himself, but of late he has been obliged to dictate to his
+wife and two secretaries; re-writing, however, much of his work in the
+margin of the manuscript, and also adding to, and polishing, each
+chapter in proof, for no writer pays
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_598" id="Page_598">[Pg 598]</a></span>
+more attention to style and
+chiselled form than the man who has been called the French Dickens, and
+whose compositions, to the uninitiated, would seem to be singularly
+spontaneous.</p>
+
+<p>Since the war M. Daudet has never had an hour&#8217;s sleep without artificial
+aid, such as chloral; but devotees of Lady Nicotine will be interested
+to learn that in answer to a question he once said, &ldquo;I have smoked a
+great deal while working, and the more I smoked the better I worked. I
+have never noticed that tobacco is injurious, but I must admit that,
+when I am not well, even the smell of a cigarette is odious.&rdquo; He added
+that he had a great horror of alcohol as a stimulant for work, and has
+ofttimes been heard to say that those who believe in working on spirits
+had better make up their minds to become total abstainers if they hope
+to achieve anything in the way of literature.</p>
+
+<p>Unlike most literary <em>m&eacute;nages</em>, M. and Madame Daudet are one of those
+happy couples who are said by cynics to be the exceptions which prove
+the rule. Literary men are proverbially unlucky in their helpmates; and
+geniuses have been proved again and again to reserve their fitful
+humours and uncertain tempers for home use. M. and Madame Daudet are at
+once sympathetic, literary partners, and the happiest of married
+couples; in <em>L&#8217;Enfance d&#8217;une Parisienne</em>, <em>Enfants et M&egrave;res</em>, and
+<em>Fragments d&#8217;un Livre In&eacute;dit</em>, Madame Daudet has proved that she is in
+her own way as original and delicate an artist as her husband. She has
+never written a novel, but, as a great French critic once aptly
+remarked, &ldquo;Each one of her books contains the essence of innumerable
+novels.&rdquo; Her literary work has been an afterthought, an accident; she is
+not anxious to make a name by her writing, and her most intimate friends
+have never heard her mention her literary faculty; like most
+Frenchwomen, a devoted mother, when not helping her husband, she is
+absorbed in her children, and whilst her boys were at the Lyc&eacute;e she
+taught herself Latin in order to help them prepare their lessons every
+evening; and she is now her young daughter&#8217;s closest companion and
+friend.</p>
+
+<p>One of the most charming characteristics of Alphonse Daudet is his love
+for, and pride in, his wife. &ldquo;I often think of my first meeting with
+her,&rdquo; he will say. &ldquo;I was quite a young fellow, and had a great
+prejudice against literary women, and especially against poetesses, but
+I came, saw, and was conquered, and,&rdquo; he will conclude smiling, &ldquo;I have
+remained under the charm ever since.... People sometimes ask me whether
+I approve of women writing; how should I not, when my own
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_599" id="Page_599">[Pg 599]</a></span> wife has
+always written, and when all that is best in my literary work is owing
+to her influence and suggestion. There are whole realms of human nature
+which we men cannot explore. We have not eyes to see, nor hearts to
+understand, certain subtle things which a woman perceives at once; yes,
+women have a mission to fulfil in the literature of to-day.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 242px;">
+<img src="images/img599.jpg" width="242" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the proven&ccedil;al furniture.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Strangely enough, M. Daudet made the acquaintance of his future wife
+through a favourable review he wrote of a volume of verse published by
+her parents, M. and Madame Allard. They were so pleased with the notice
+that they wrote and asked the critic to come and see them. How truly
+thankful the one time critic must now feel that he was inspired to deal
+gently by the little <em>bouquin</em>.</p>
+
+<p>Madame Daudet is devoted to art, and her pretty <em>salon</em> is one of the
+most artistic <em>int&eacute;rieurs</em> in Paris, whilst the dining-room, fitted up
+with old Proven&ccedil;al furniture, looks as though it had been lifted bodily
+out of some fastness in troubadour land.</p>
+
+<p>The tie between the novelist and his children is a very close one; he
+has said of L&eacute;on that there stands his best work; and, indeed, the young
+man is in a fair way to make his father&#8217;s words come true, for,
+inheriting much of both parents&#8217; literary faculty, M. L&eacute;on Daudet lately
+made his <em>d&eacute;b&ucirc;t</em> as a novelist with <em>H&oelig;r&egrave;s</em>, a remarkable story with
+a purpose, in which the author strove to explain his somewhat curious
+theories on the laws of heredity. Having originally been intended for
+the medical profession, he takes a special interest in this subject. It
+is curious that three such distinct and different literary gifts should
+exist simultaneously in the same family.</p>
+
+<p>As soon as even the cool, narrow streets of the Quartier Latin begin to
+grow dusty and sultry with summer heat, the whole Daudet family emigrate
+to the novelist&#8217;s charming country cottage
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_600" id="Page_600">[Pg 600]</a></span>
+at Champrosay. There old
+friends, such as M. Edmond de Goncourt, are ever made welcome, and life
+is one long holiday for those who bring no work with them. Daudet
+himself has described his country home as being &ldquo;situated thirty miles
+from Paris, at a lovely bend of the Seine, a provincial Seine invaded by
+bulrushes, purple irises, and water-lilies, bearing on its bosom tufts
+of grass, and clumps of tangled roots, on which the tired dragon-flies
+alight, and allow themselves to be lazily floated down the stream.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img600.jpg" width="400" height="335" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the drawing room.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>It was in a round, ivy-clad pavilion overhanging the river that <em>le
+ma&icirc;tre du logis</em> wrote <em>L&#8217;Immortel</em>. On an exceptionally fine day he
+would get into a canoe, and let it drift among the reeds, till, in the
+shadow of an old willow-tree, the boat became his study, and the two
+crossed oars his desk. Strange that so bitter and profoundly cynical a
+study of modern Paris life should have been evolved in such
+surroundings, whilst the <em>Contes de Mon Moulin</em>, and many other of his
+most ideal <em>nouvelles</em>, were written in the sombre grey house where M.
+and Madame Daudet lived during many years of their early married life.</p>
+
+<p>The author of <em>Les Rois en Exile</em> has not yet utilised Champrosay as a
+background to any of his stories; he takes notes,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_601" id="Page_601">[Pg 601]</a></span>
+however, of all that
+goes on in the little village community, much as he did in the Duc de
+Morny&#8217;s splendid palace, and in time his readers may have the pleasure
+of perusing an idyllic yet realistic picture of French country life, an
+outcome of his summer experiences.</p>
+
+<p>Alphonse Daudet was born just fifty-three years ago in the sunlit, white
+<em>b&acirc;tisse</em> at Nimes, which he has described in the painful, melancholy
+history of his childhood, entitled <em>Le Petit Chose</em>. At an age when
+other French boys are themselves <em>lyc&eacute;ans</em>, he became usher in a kind of
+provincial Dotheboys Hall; and some idea of what the sensitive, poetical
+lad went through may be gained by the fact that he more than once
+seriously contemplated committing suicide. But fate had something better
+in store for <em>le petit Daudet</em>, and his seventeenth birthday found him
+in Paris sharing his brother Ernest&#8217;s garret, having arrived in the
+great city with just forty sous remaining of his little store, after
+spending two days and nights in a third-class carriage.</p>
+
+<p>Even now, there is a touch of protection and maternal affection in the
+way in which Ernest Daudet regards his younger brother, and the latter
+never mentions his early struggles without recalling the
+self-abnegation, generous kindliness, and devotion of &ldquo;<em>mon fr&egrave;re</em>.&rdquo; The
+two went through some hard times together. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; says the great writer,
+speaking of those days, &ldquo;I thought my brother passing rich, for he
+earned seventy-five francs a month by being secretary to an old
+gentleman at whose dictation he took down his memoirs.&rdquo; And so they
+managed to live, going occasionally to the theatre, and seeing not a
+little of life, on the sum of thirty shillings a month apiece!</p>
+
+<p>When receiving visitors, the author of <em>Tartarin</em> places himself with
+his back to the light on one of the deep, comfortable couches which line
+the fireplace of his study, but from out the huge mass of his powerful
+head, surrounded by the lionese mane, which has become famous in his
+portraits and photographs, gleam two piercing dark eyes, which, like
+those of most short-sighted people, seem to perceive what is immediately
+before them with an extra intensity of vision.</p>
+
+<p>To ask one who has far outrun his fellows what he thinks of the race
+seems a superfluous question. Yet, in answer as to what he would say of
+literature as a profession, M. Daudet gave a startlingly clear and
+decided answer.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 300px;">
+<img src="images/img602.jpg" width="300" height="266" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the billiard and fencing room.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The man who has it in him to write will do so, however great his
+difficulties, but I would never advise any young fellow to make
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_602" id="Page_602">[Pg 602]</a></span>
+literature his profession, and I think it is nothing short of madness to
+give up a good chance of making your livelihood in some other, though
+perhaps less congenial, fashion, in order to pursue the calling of
+letters. You would be surprised if you knew the number of young people
+who come to me for sympathy with their literary aspirations, and as for
+the manuscripts submitted to me, the sending of them back keeps one of
+my friends pretty busy, for of late years I have had to refuse to look
+at anything sent to me in this way. In vain I say to those who come to
+consult me, &lsquo;However much occupied you are with your present way of
+earning a livelihood, if you have it in you to write anything you will
+surely find time to do it.&rsquo; They go away unconvinced, and a few months
+later sees them launched on the perilous seas of journalism; with now
+really not a moment to spare for serious writing! Of course, if the
+would-be writer has already an income, I see no reason why he should not
+give himself up to literature altogether. It was in order to provide a
+certain number of coming geniuses with the wherewithal to find at least
+spare time in which to write possible masterpieces, that my friend
+Edmond de Goncourt and his brother Jules conceived the noble and
+unselfish idea to found an institute, the members of which would require
+but two qualifications, poverty and exceptional literary power. If a
+would-be writer can find someone who will assist him in this manner,
+well and good; but no one is a prophet in his own country, and friends
+and relations are, as a rule, most unwilling to waste good money on
+their young literary acquaintances. Still I admit that the Academie de
+Goncourt would fulfil a want, for there have been, and are, great
+geniuses who positively cannot produce their masterpieces from bitter
+poverty.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_603" id="Page_603">[Pg 603]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Then do you believe in journalism as a stepping-stone to literature?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I cannot say that I do, though, strangely enough, there is scarcely one
+of us&mdash;I allude to latter-day French novelists and critics&mdash;who did not
+spend at least a portion of his youth doing hard, pot-boiling newspaper
+work. But I deplore the necessity of a novelist having to make
+journalism his start in life, for, as all newspaper writing has to be
+done against time, his style must certainly deteriorate, and his
+literature becomes journalese.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What was your own first literary essay, M. Daudet?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You know I was born a poet, not a novelist; besides, when I was a lad
+everyone wrote poetry, so I made my <em>d&eacute;b&ucirc;t</em> by a book of verse entitled
+<em>Mes Amoureuses</em>. I was just eighteen, and this was my first stroke of
+luck; for six weary months I had carried my poor little manuscript from
+publisher to publisher, but, strange to say, I never got further than
+these great people&#8217;s ante-chamber; at last, a certain Tardieu, a
+publisher who was himself an author, took pity on my <em>Amoureuses</em>. The
+title had been a happy inspiration, and the volume received some
+favourable notices, and led indirectly to my getting journalistic work.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Indeed, it seems to have been more or less of an accident that M. Daudet
+did not devote himself entirely to poetry; and probably the very poverty
+which seemed so bitter to him during his youth obliged him to try what
+he could do in the way of story-writing, that branch of literature being
+supposed by the French to be the best from a pecuniary point of view. So
+remarkable were his verses felt to be by the critics of the day, that
+one of them wrote, &ldquo;When dying, Alfred de Musset left his two pens as a
+last legacy to our literature&mdash;Feuillet has taken that of prose; into
+Daudet&#8217;s hand has slipped that of verse.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But some years passed before the poet-journalist became the novelist; at
+one time he dreamed of being a great dramatist, and before he was
+five-and-twenty several of his plays had been produced at leading Paris
+theatres. Fortune smiled upon him, and he was appointed to be one of the
+Duc de Morny&#8217;s secretaries, a post he held four years, and which
+supplied him with much valuable material for several of his later
+novels, notably <em>Les Rois en Exile</em>, <em>Le Nabab</em>, and <em>Numa Romestan</em>,
+for during this period he was brought into close and intimate contact
+with all the noteworthy personages of the Third Empire, making at the
+same time the acquaintance of most of the literary lions of the
+day&mdash;Flaubert, with whom he became very intimate; Edmond and Jules de
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_604" id="Page_604">[Pg 604]</a></span>
+Goncourt, the two gifted brothers who may be said to have founded the
+realistic school of fiction years before Emile Zola came forward as the
+apostle of realism; Tourguenieff, the two Dumas, and many others who
+welcomed enthusiastically the young Southern poet into their midst.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 220px;">
+<img src="images/img604.jpg" width="220" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the tuileries stone.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The first page of <em>Le Petit Chose</em> was written in the February of 1866,
+and was finished during the author&#8217;s honeymoon, but it was with <em>Fromont
+Jeune et Risler Ain&eacute;</em>, published six years later, that he made his first
+real success as a novelist, the work being crowned by the French
+Academy, and arousing a veritable enthusiasm both at home and abroad.</p>
+
+<p>Alphonse Daudet is not a quick worker; he often allows several years to
+elapse between his novels, and refuses to bind himself down to any
+especial date. <em>Tartarin de Tarascon</em> was, however, an exception to this
+rule, for the author wrote it for Messrs. Guillaume, the well-known art
+publishers, who, wishing to popularise an improved style of
+illustration, offered M. Daudet 150,000 francs (&pound;6,000) to write them a
+serio-comic story. <em>Tartarin</em>, which obtained an instant popularity,
+proved the author&#8217;s versatility, but won him the hatred of the good
+people of Provence, who have never forgiven him for having made fun of
+their foibles. On one occasion a bagman, passing through Tarascon, put,
+by way of a jest, the name &ldquo;Alphonse Daudet&rdquo; in his hotel register. The
+news quickly spread, and had it not been for the prompt help of the
+innkeeper, who managed to smuggle him out of the town, he might easily
+have had cause to regret his foolish joke.</p>
+
+<p>Judging by sales, <em>Sapho</em> has been the most popular of Daudet&#8217;s novels,
+for over a quarter of a million copies have been sold. Like most of his
+stories, its appearance provoked a great deal of discussion, as did the
+author&#8217;s dedication &ldquo;To my two sons at the age of twenty.&rdquo; But, in
+answer to his critics, Daudet always
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_605" id="Page_605">[Pg 605]</a></span>
+replies, &ldquo;I wrote the book with a
+purpose, and I have succeeded in painting the picture as I wished it to
+appear. Each of the types mentioned by me really existed; each incident
+was copied from life....&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The year following its publication M. Daudet dramatised <em>Sapho</em>, and the
+play was acted with considerable success at the Gymnase, Jane Hading
+being in the <em>title-r&ocirc;le</em>. Last year the play was again acted in Paris,
+with Madame Rejane as the heroine.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 278px;">
+<img src="images/img605.jpg" width="278" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">daudet&#8217;s younger son.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>M. Daudet, like most novelists, takes a special interest in all that
+concerns dramatic art and the theatre. When his health permits it he is
+a persistent first-nighter, and most of his novels lend themselves in a
+rare degree to stage adaptation.</p>
+
+<p>I once asked him what he thought of the attempts now so frequently made
+to introduce unconventionality and naked realism on the stage.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have every sympathy,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;with the attempts made by Antoine
+and his Th&ecirc;atre Libre to discover strong and unconventional work. But I
+do not believe in the new terms which a certain school have invented for
+everything; after all, the play&#8217;s the thing, whether it is produced by a
+group who dub themselves romantics, realists, old or new style. Realism
+is not necessarily real life; a photograph only gives a rigid, neutral
+side of the object placed in front of the camera. A dissection of what
+we call affection does not give so vivid an impression of the
+master-passion as a true love-sonnet written by a poet. Life is a
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_606" id="Page_606">[Pg 606]</a></span> thing
+of infinite gradations; a dramatist wishes to show existence as it
+really is, not as it may be under exceptionally revolting
+circumstances.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>His own favourite dramatist and writer is Shakespeare, whom, however, he
+only knows by translation, and <em>Hamlet</em> and <em>Desdemona</em> are his
+favourite hero and heroine in the fiction of the world, although he
+considered Balzac his literary master.</p>
+
+<p>M. Daudet will seldom be beguiled into talking on politics. Like all
+Frenchmen, the late Panama scandals have profoundly shocked and
+disgusted him, as revealing a state of things discreditable to the
+Government of his country. But the creator of D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Dolobelle has a
+profound belief in human nature, and believes that, come what may, the
+novelist will never lack beautiful and touching models in the world
+round and about him.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 250px;">
+<img src="images/img606.jpg" width="250" height="240" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_607" id="Page_607">[Pg 607]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/img607a.jpg" width="600" height="399" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p style="font-size: 2em; margin-left: 9em; margin-top: -7em;"><em><strong>The Dismal Throng.</strong></em></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 22em;"><span class="smcap">By Robert Buchanan.</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 19em;"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Geo. Hutchinson.</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 15em;">(<em>Written after reading the last Study in Literary Distemper.</em>)</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%; margin-left: 10em;" />
+
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 188px; margin-right: 5em;">
+<img src="images/img607b.jpg" width="188" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">thomas hardy.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 6em; margin-top: 3em;">
+    The Fairy Tale of Life is done,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The horns of Fairyland cease blowing,</span><br />
+    The Gods have left us one by one,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the last Poets, too, are going!</span><br />
+    Ended is all the mirth and song,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fled are the merry Music-makers;</span><br />
+    And what remains? The Dismal Throng<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of literary Undertakers!</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 6em; margin-top: 2em;">
+    Clad in deep black of funeral cut,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With faces of forlorn expression,</span><br />
+    Their eyes half open, souls close shut,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">They stalk along in pale procession;</span><br />
+    The latest seed of Schopenhauer,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Born of a Trull of Flaubert&#8217;s choosing,</span><br />
+    They cry, while on the ground they glower,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">&ldquo;There&#8217;s nothing in the world amusing!&rdquo;</span></p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 199px; margin-left: 6em;">
+<img src="images/img607c.jpg" width="199" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">zola.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-top: 5em;">
+    There&#8217;s Zola, grimy as his theme,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nosing the sewers with cynic pleasure,</span><br />
+    Sceptic of all that poets dream,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">All hopes that simple mortals treasure;</span><br />
+    With sense most keen for odours strong,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He stirs the Drains and scents disaster,</span><br />
+    Grim monarch of the Dismal Throng<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who bow their heads before &ldquo;the Master.&rdquo;</span></p>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_608" id="Page_608">[Pg 608]</a></span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 6em; margin-top: 6em;">
+    There&#8217;s Miss Matilda<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> in the south,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">There&#8217;s Valdes<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> in Madrid and Seville,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">There&#8217;s mad Verlaine<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> with gangrened mouth.</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">Grinning at Rimbaud and the Devil.</span><br />
+    From every nation of the earth,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Instead of smiling merry-makers,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">They come, the foes of Love and Mirth,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">The Dismal Throng of Undertakers.</span></p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 204px; margin-right: 5em;">
+<img src="images/img608a.jpg" width="204" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">tolstoi.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 6em; margin-top: 4em;">
+    There&#8217;s Tolstoi, towering in his place<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">O&#8217;er all the rest by head and shoulders;</span><br />
+    No sunshine on that noble face<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which Nature meant to charm beholders!</span><br />
+    Mad with his self-made martyr&#8217;s shirt,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Obscene, through hatred of obsceneness,</span><br />
+    He from a pulpit built of Dirt<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shrieks his Apocalypse of Cleanness!</span></p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 205px; margin-left: 6em;">
+<img src="images/img608b.jpg" width="205" height="280" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">ibsen.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-top: 7em;">
+    There&#8217;s Ibsen,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> puckering up his lips,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Squirming at Nature and Society,</span><br />
+    Drawing with tingling finger-tips<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The clothes off naked Impropriety!</span><br />
+    So nice, so nasty, and so grim,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He hugs his gloomy bottled thunder;</span><br />
+    To summon up one smile from <em>him</em><br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Would be a miracle of wonder!</span></p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_609" id="Page_609">[Pg 609]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 245px; margin-right: 4em; margin-top: 4em;">
+<img src="images/img609.jpg" width="245" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">pierre loti.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 7em;">
+    There&#8217;s Maupassant,<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> who takes his cue<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From Dame Bovary&#8217;s bourgeois troubles;</span><br />
+    There&#8217;s Bourget, dyed his own sick &ldquo;blue,&rdquo;<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There&#8217;s Loti, blowing blue soap bubbles;</span><br />
+    There&#8217;s Mend&egrave;s<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> (no Catullus, he!)<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There&#8217;s Richepin,<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> sick with sensual passion.</span><br />
+    The Dismal Throng! So foul, so free,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet sombre all, as is the fashion.</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 3em;">
+    &ldquo;Turn down the lights! put out the Sun!<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Man is unclean and morals muddy.</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">The Fairy Tale of Life is done,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">Disease and Dirt must be our study!</span><br />
+    Tear open Nature&#8217;s genial heart,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Let neither God nor gods escape us,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">But spare, to give our subjects zest,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">The basest god of all&mdash;Priapus!&rdquo;</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 3em;">
+    The Dismal Throng! &#8217;Tis thus they preach,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">From Christiania to Cadiz,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Recruited as they talk and teach</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">By dingy lads and draggled ladies;</span><br />
+    Without a sunbeam or a song,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">With no clear Heaven to hunger after;</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">The Dismal Throng! the Dismal Throng!</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">The foes of Life and Love and Laughter!</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 3em;">
+    By Shakespere&#8217;s Soul! if this goes on,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">From every face of man and woman</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">The gift of gladness will be gone,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">And laughter will be thought inhuman!</span><br />
+    The only beast who smiles is Man!<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>That</em> marks him out from meaner creatures!</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Confound the Dismal Throng, who plan</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">To take God&#8217;s birth-mark from our features!</span></p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_610" id="Page_610">[Pg 610]</a></span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 3em;">
+    Manfreds who walk the hospitals.<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Laras and Giaours grown scientific,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">They wear the clothes and bear the palls</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">Of Stormy Ones once thought terrific;</span><br />
+    They play the same old funeral tune,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">And posture with the same dejection,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">But turn from howling at the moon</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">To literary vivisection!</span></p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 207px; margin-right: 5em;">
+<img src="images/img610a.jpg" width="207" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">oscar wilde.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 3em;">
+    And while they loom before our view,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dark&#8217;ning the air that should be sunny,</span><br />
+    Here&#8217;s Oscar,<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> growing dismal too,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our Oscar, who was once so funny!</span><br />
+    Blue china ceases to delight<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dear curl&#8217;d darling of society,</span><br />
+    Changed are his breeches, once so bright,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For foreign breaches of propriety!</span></p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 178px; margin-top: 3em; margin-left: 6em;">
+<img src="images/img610b.jpg" width="178" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">george moore.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 9em;">
+    I like my Oscar, tolerate<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">My Archer<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> of the Dauntless Grammar,</span><br />
+    Nay, e&#8217;en my Moore<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> I estimate<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not too unkindly, &#8217;spite his clamour;</span><br />
+    But I prefer my roses still<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To all the garlic in their garden&mdash;</span><br />
+    Let Hedda gabble as she will,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I&#8217;ll stay with Rosalind, in Arden!</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 5em;">
+    O for one laugh of Rabelais,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">To rout these moralising croakers!</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">(The cowls were mightier far than they,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">Yet fled before that King of Jokers)</span><br />
+    O for a slash of Fielding&#8217;s pen<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">To bleed these pimps of Melancholy!</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">O for a Boz, born once again</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">To play the Dickens with such folly!</span></p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_611" id="Page_611">[Pg 611]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 181px; margin-left: 5em;">
+<img src="images/img611a.jpg" width="181" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mark twain.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 7em;">
+    Yet stay! why bid the dead arise?<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why call them back from Charon&#8217;s wherry?</span><br />
+    Come, Yankee Mark, with twinkling eyes,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Confuse these ghouls with something merry!</span><br />
+    Come, Kipling, with thy soldiers three,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thy barrack-ladies frail and fervent,</span><br />
+    Forsake thy themes of butchery<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And be the merry Muses&#8217; servant!</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 5em;">
+    Come, Dickens&#8217; foster-son, Bret Harte!<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Come, Sims, though gigmen flout thy labours!</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Tom Hardy, blow the clouds apart</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">With sound of rustic fifes and tabors!</span><br />
+    Dick Blackmore, full of homely joy,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Come from thy garden by the river,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">And pelt with fruit and flowers, old boy,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">These dismal bores who drone for ever!</span></p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 194px; margin-right: 5em;">
+<img src="images/img611b.jpg" width="194" height="250" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">george meredith.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 5em;">
+    Come, too, George Meredith, whose eyes,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though oft with vapours shadow&#8217;d over,</span><br />
+    Can catch the sunlight from the skies<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And flash it down on lass and lover;</span><br />
+    Tell us of Life, and Love&#8217;s young dream,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Show the prismatic soul of Woman,</span><br />
+    Bring back the Light, whose morning beam<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">First made the Beast upright and human!</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 5em;">
+    You <em>can</em> be merry, George, I vow!<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wit through your cloudiest prosing twinkles!</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Brood as you may, upon your brow</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">The cynic, Art, has left no wrinkles!</span><br />
+    For you&#8217;re a poet to the core,<br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 2em;">No ghouls can from the Muses win you;</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 4em;">So throw your cap i&#8217; the air once more,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 6em;">And show the joy of earth that&#8217;s in you!</span></p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_612" id="Page_612">[Pg 612]</a></span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 2em;">
+    By Heaven! we want you one and all,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For Hypochondria is reigning&mdash;</span><br />
+    The Mater Dolorosa&#8217;s squall<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Makes Nature hideous with complaining!</span><br />
+    Ah! who will paint the Face that smiled<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Art was virginal and vernal&mdash;</span><br />
+    The pure Madonna with her Child,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pure as the light, and as eternal!</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 2em;">
+    Pest on these dreary, dolent airs!<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Confound these funeral pomps and poses!</span><br />
+    Is Life Dyspepsia&#8217;s and Despair&#8217;s,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Love&#8217;s complexion all <em>chlorosis</em>?</span><br />
+    A lie! There&#8217;s Health, and Mirth, and Song,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The World still laughs, and goes a-Maying&mdash;</span><br />
+    The dismal, droning, doleful Throng<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are only smuts in sunshine playing!</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-top: 2em;">
+    Play up, ye horns of Fairyland!<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shine out, O sun, and planets seven!</span><br />
+    Beyond these clouds a beckoning Hand<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gleams from the lattices of Heaven!</span><br />
+    The World&#8217;s alive&mdash;still quick, not dead,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It needs no Undertaker&#8217;s warning;</span><br />
+    So put the Dismal Throng to bed,<br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wake once more to Light and Morning!</span></p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Mathilde Serao, an Italian novelist.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> A Spanish novelist.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Verlaine and Rimbaud, two poets of the Parisian Decadence.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> A Norwegian playwright.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Guy de Maupassant, Paul Bourget, and Pierre Loti, novelists
+of the Decadence.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Catulle Mend&egrave;s, a Parisian poet and novelist.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Jean Richepin, ditto.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Mr. Oscar Wilde.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Mr. William Archer, a newspaper critic.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Mr. George Moore, an author and newspaper critic.</p></div>
+
+<div class="box">
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Note.</span>&mdash;These verses refer to a literary phenomenon that will in
+time become historical, that phenomenon being the sudden growth, in
+all parts of Europe, of a fungus-literature bred of Foulness and
+Decay; and contemporaneously, the intrusion into all parts of human
+life of a Calvinistic yet materialistic Morality. This literature
+of a sunless Decadence has spread widely, by virtue of its own
+uncleanness, and its leading characteristics are gloom, ugliness,
+prurience, preachiness, and weedy flabbiness of style. That it has
+not flourished in Great Britain, save among a small and discredited
+Cockney minority, is due to the inherent manliness and vigour of
+the national character. The land of Shakespere, Scott, Burns,
+Fielding, Dickens, and Charles Reade is protected against literary
+miasmas by the strength of its humour and the sunniness of its
+temperament.&mdash;R.B.</p></div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_613" id="Page_613">[Pg 613]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>In the Hands of Jefferson.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Eden Phillpotts.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Ronald Gray.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p>It is not difficult to appreciate the recent catastrophe in Oceania,
+where the island of Great Sangir was partially smothered by terrific
+volcanic and seismic convulsions, when one has visited the Western
+Indies.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img613.jpg" width="500" height="356" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;where lord nelson enjoyed his honeymoon.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Many of these tropic isles probably owe their present isolation, if not
+their actual existence, to mighty earthquake throes in remote ages of
+terrestrial history beyond the memory of man. But man&#8217;s memory is not a
+very extensive affair, and at best probes the past to the extent of a
+mere rind of a few thousand years. For the rest he has to read the word
+of God, written in fossil and stone and those wondrous arcana of Nature,
+which, each in turn, yields a fragment of the secret of truth to human
+intellect.</p>
+
+<p>Regions that have been produced or largely modified by earthquake and
+volcanic upheaval may, probably enough, vanish at any moment under like
+conditions; and the island of Nevis, hard by St.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_614" id="Page_614">[Pg 614]</a></span>
+Christopher, in the
+West Indies, strongly suggests a possibility of such disaster. It has
+always been the regular rendezvous of hurricanes and earthquakes, and it
+consists practically of one vast volcanic mountain which rises abruptly
+from the sea and pushes its densely-wooded sides three thousand two
+hundred feet into the sky. The crater shows no particularly active
+inclination at present, but it is doubtless wide awake and merely
+resting, like its volcanic neighbour in St. Christopher, where the
+breathing of the dormant giant can be noted through rent and rift. The
+Fourth Officer of our steamship &ldquo;Rhine&rdquo; assured me, as we approached the
+lofty dome of Nevis and gazed upon its fertile acclivities and fringe of
+palms, that it would never surprise him upon his rounds to find the
+place had altogether disappeared under the Caribbean Sea. He added,
+according to his custom, an allusion to Columbus, and explained also
+that, in the dead and gone days of Slave Traffic, Nevis was a much more
+important spot than it is ever likely to become again. Then, indeed, the
+island enjoyed no little prosperity and importance, being a head centre
+and mart for the industry in negroes. Emancipation, however, wrecked
+Nevis, together with a good many other of the Antilles.</p>
+
+<p>At Montpelier, on this island, Lord Nelson enjoyed his honeymoon, but
+now only a few trees and a little ruined masonry at the corner of a
+sugar-cane plantation appear to mark the spot. Further, it may be
+recorded, as a point in favour of the place, that it grows very
+exceptional Tangerine oranges. These, to taste in perfection, should be
+eaten at the turning point, before their skins grow yellow. We cannot
+judge of the noble possibilities in an orange at home. I brought back a
+dozen of these Nevis Tangerines with me, but I secretly suspected that,
+in spite of their fine reputation, quite inferior sorts would be able to
+beat them by the time they got to England; and it was so.</p>
+
+<p>We stopped half-an-hour only at Charlestown, Nevis, and then proceeded
+to St. Christopher, a sister isle of greater size and scope.</p>
+
+<p>At Antigua, there came aboard the &ldquo;Rhine&rdquo; a young man who implicitly
+leads us to understand that he is the most important person in the West
+Indies. He is the Governor of Antigua&#8217;s own clerk, and is going to St.
+Christopher with a portmanteau, some walking-sticks, and a despatch-box.
+It appears that his significance is gigantic, and that, though the
+nominal seat of government lies at Antigua, yet the real active centre
+of political administration may be found immediately under the Panama hat
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_615" id="Page_615">[Pg 615]</a></span>
+of the Governor&#8217;s own clerk. This he takes the trouble to explain
+to us. The Governor himself is a puppet, his trusted men of resource and
+portfolio-holders are the veriest fantoccini; for the Governor&#8217;s own
+clerk pulls the strings, frames the foreign policy, conducts, controls,
+adjusts difficulties, and maintains a right balance between the parties.
+This he condescends to make clear to us.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 159px;">
+<img src="images/img615.jpg" width="159" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;the most important person in the west indies.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>I ventured to ask him how many of the more important nations were
+involved with the matters at present in his despatch-box; and he said
+lightly, as though the concern in hand was a mere bagatelle, that only
+the United States, Great Britain and Germany were occupying his
+attention at the moment.</p>
+
+<p>The Model Man said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I suppose you&#8217;ll soon knock off a flea-bite like that?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And the Governor&#8217;s own clerk answered:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I fancy so, unless any unforeseen hitch happens. Negotiations are
+pending.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I liked his last sentence particularly. It smacked so strongly of miles
+of red tape and months of official delay.</p>
+
+<p>When we reached St. Christopher, it was currently reported that the
+Governor&#8217;s own clerk had simply come to settle a dispute between two
+negro landowners concerning a fragment of the island rather smaller than
+a table-napkin; but personally I doubt not this was a blind, under cover
+of which he secretly pushed forward those pending negotiations. He
+certainly had fine diplomatic instincts, and a sound view, from a
+political standpoint, of the value of veracity.</p>
+
+<p>When we cast out anchor off Basseterre, St. Christopher, the Treasure
+hurried to me in some sorrow. He had proposed going ashore, with his
+Enchantress and her mother, to show them the sights, but now, to his
+dismay, he found that unforeseen official duties would keep him on the
+ship during our brief sojourn here. With anxiety almost pathetic,
+therefore, he entrusted the Enchantress to me, and commended her mother
+to the Doctor&#8217;s care. I felt the compliment, and assured him that I
+would simply devote myself to her&mdash;platonically withal; but the Doctor was
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_616" id="Page_616">[Pg 616]</a></span>
+not quite so hearty about her mother. However, he must behave like
+a gentleman, whether he felt inclined to do so or not, which the
+Treasure knew, and, therefore, felt safe.</p>
+
+<p>Our party of four started straightway for a ramble in St. Kitts (as St.
+Christopher is more generally called), and, upon landing, we were
+happily met by a middle-aged negro, who had evidently watched our boat
+from afar. He tumbled off a pile of planks, where he had been basking in
+the sun, girt his indifferent raiment about him, and then, by sheer
+force of character, took complete command of our contemplated
+expedition. It may have been hypnotism, or some kindred mystery, but we
+were unresisting children in his hands. He said: &ldquo;Follow me, gem&#8217;men: me
+show you ebb&#8217;ryting for nuffing: de &#8217;tanical Garns, de prison-house, de
+public buildings, de church, an&#8217; all. Dis way, dis way, ladies. Don&#8217;t
+listen to dem niggers; dey nobody on dis island.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 339px;">
+<img src="images/img616.jpg" width="339" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;follow me, gem&#8217;men!&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The Doctor alone fought feebly, but it was useless, and, in two minutes,
+our masterful Ethiop had led us all away to see the sights.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What&#8217;s your name?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jefferson, sar; ebb&#8217;rybody know Jefferson. Fus&#8217;, we go to &#8217;tanical
+Garns. Here dey is.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Botanical Gardens of Basseterre, St. Kitts, were handsome,
+extensive, and well cared for. We wandered with pleasure down broad
+walks, shaded by cabbage palms and palmettos, mahogany and tamarind
+trees; we admired the fountain and varied foliage and blazing
+flower-beds, streaked and splashed with many brilliant blossoms and
+bright-leaved crotons.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_617" id="Page_617">[Pg 617]</a></span>
+&ldquo;There,&rdquo; said the mother of the Enchantress, pointing to a handsome
+lily, &ldquo;is a specimen of Crinum Asiaticum.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Doctor started as though she had used a bad word. He hates a woman
+to know anything he does not, and this botanical display irritated him;
+but our attention was instantly distracted by Jefferson, who, upon
+hearing the lily admired, walked straight up to it and picked it.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;">
+<img src="images/img617.jpg" width="475" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;there is a specimen of crinum asiaticum.&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>I expostulated. I said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You mustn&#8217;t go plucking curiosities here, Jefferson, or you will get us
+all into hot water.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Dat&#8217;s right, massa,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Me an&#8217; de boss garner great ole
+frens. De ladies jus&#8217; say what dey like, an&#8217; Jefferson pick him off for
+dem.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was as good as his word, and a fine theatrical display followed, as
+our party grew gradually bolder and bolder, and our guide, evidently
+upon his mettle, complied with each request in turn.</p>
+
+<p>I will cast a fragment of the dialogue and action in dramatic form, so
+that you may the better judge of and picture that wild scene.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_618" id="Page_618">[Pg 618]</a></span>
+<span class="smcap">The Enchantress</span> (<em>timidly</em>): Should you think we might have this tiny
+flower?</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Jefferson</span>: I pick him, missy. (<em>Does so.</em>)</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Doctor</span>: I wonder if they&#8217;d miss one of those red things? They&#8217;ve got
+a good number. I believe they&#8217;re medicinal. Should you think&mdash;&mdash;?</p>
+
+<p>(<em>Jefferson picks two of the flowers in question. The Doctor takes
+heart.</em>)</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 228px;">
+<img src="images/img618.jpg" width="228" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;might we have that?&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Mother of the Enchantress</span>: Dear me! Here&#8217;s a singularly fine
+specimen of the Somethingiensis. I wonder if you&mdash;&mdash;?</p>
+
+<p>(<em>Jefferson picks it.</em>)</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Doctor</span>: We might have that big affair there, hidden away behind
+those orange trees. Nobody will miss it. I should rather like it for my
+own.</p>
+
+<p>(<em>Jefferson wrestles with this concern, and the Doctor lends him a
+knife.</em>)</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Enchantress</span>: Oh, there&#8217;s a sweet, sweet blossom! Might we have that,
+and that bud, and that bunch of leaves next to them, Monsieur Jefferson?</p>
+
+<p>(<em>Jefferson, evidently feeling he is in for a hard morning&#8217;s work, makes
+further onslaught upon the flora, and drags down three parts of an
+entire tree.</em>)</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Mother of the Enchantress</span>: When you&#8217;re done there, I will ask you to
+go into this fountain for one of those blue water-lilies.</p>
+
+<p>(<em>Jefferson, getting rather sick of it, pretends he does not hear.</em>)</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Doctor</span> (<em>speaking in loud tones which Jefferson cannot ignore</em>):
+Pick that, please, and that, and those things half-way up that tree.</p>
+
+<p>(<em>Jefferson begins to grow very hot and uneasy. He peeps about
+nervously, probably with a view to dodging his old friend, the head
+gardener.</em>)</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">The Chronicler</span> (<em>feeling that his party is disgracing itself, and
+desiring to reprove them in a parable</em>): I say, Jefferson, could you cut
+down that palm&mdash;the biggest of those two&mdash;and have it sent along to the
+ship? If the head gardener is here, he might help you.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_619" id="Page_619">[Pg 619]</a></span>
+<span class="smcap">Jefferson</span> (<em>losing his temper, missing the parable, and turning upon the
+Chronicler</em>): No, sar! You no hab no more. I&#8217;se dam near pulled off
+ebb&#8217;ryting in de &#8217;tanical Garns, an&#8217; I&#8217;se goin&#8217; right away now &#8217;fore
+anyfing&#8217;s said!</p>
+
+<p>(<em>Exit Jefferson rapidly, trying to conceal a mass of foliage under his
+ragged coat. The party follows him in single file.</em>)</p>
+
+<p class="center">[<em>Curtain.</em>]</p>
+
+<p>I doubt not that, had we met the head gardener just then, our guide
+would have lost a friend.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 272px;">
+<img src="images/img619.jpg" width="272" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;i&#8217;se pulled off ebb&#8217;ryting in the &#8217;tanical garns.&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Henceforth, evidently feeling we were not wholly responsible in this
+foreign atmosphere of wonders, Jefferson stuck to the streets, and took
+us to churches and shops and other places where we had to control
+ourselves and leave things alone.</p>
+
+<p>On the way to a photographer&#8217;s he cooled down and became instructive
+again. He told us the name and address and bad actions of every white
+person we met. Society at St. Kitts, from his point of view, appeared to
+be in an utterly rotten condition. The most reputable clique was his
+own. We met several of his personal friends. They were generally brown
+or yellow, and he assured us that he had white blood in him too&mdash;a fact
+we could not possibly have guessed. Presently he grew confidential, and
+told us that his eldest son was a source of great discomfort to him. At
+the age of fifteen Jefferson Junior had run away from home and left St.
+Kitts to better himself at Barbados. Five years afterwards, however,
+when he had almost passed out of his parents&#8217; memory, so Jefferson
+declared, the young man returned, sick and penniless, to the home of his
+birth. I said here:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This is the Prodigal Son story over again, Jefferson. Did you kill the
+fatted calf, I wonder, and make much of the lad?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, sar,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;didn&#8217;t kill no fatted nuffing, but I precious
+near kill de podigal son.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Concerning St. Christopher, we have direct authority, from the immortal
+and ubiquitous Columbus himself, that it is an
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_620" id="Page_620">[Pg 620]</a></span>
+island of exceptional
+advantages; for, delighted with its aspect in 1493, he bestowed his own
+name upon it. Indeed, the place has a beautiful and imposing appearance.
+Dark green forests and emerald tracts of sugar-cane now clothe its
+plains and hills; and Mount Misery, the loftiest peak, rises to a height
+of over four thousand feet. Caribs were the original inhabitants and
+possessors of St. Kitts, but when England and France agreed to divide
+this island between them in 1627, we find the local anthropophagi left
+out in the cold as usual. After bickering for about sixty years, the
+French enjoyed a temporary success, and slew their British brother
+colonists pretty generally. Then Fortune&#8217;s wheel took a turn, and under
+the Peace of Utrecht, in 1713, St. Kitts became our property from strand
+to mountain-top.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img620.jpg" width="500" height="351" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;volcanic indications.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>There is only one road in this island, I am told, but that is thirty
+miles long, and extends all round the place. Volcanic indications occur
+freely on Mount Misery, and, as at Nevis, so here, the entire community
+may, some day, find itself very uncomfortably situated. A feature of St.
+Kitts is said to be monkeys, which occur in the woods. These, however,
+like the deer at Tobago, are more frequently heard of than seen. People
+were rather alarmed here, during our flying visit, by a form of
+influenza which settled upon the town of Basseterre; but we,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_621" id="Page_621">[Pg 621]</a></span> who had
+only lately come from England, and were familiar with the revolting
+lengths to which this malady will go in cold climes, reassured them, and
+laughed their puny tropical species to scorn. Finally, of St. Kitts, I
+would say: From information received in the first case, and from
+personal experience in the second, that there you shall find sugar
+culture in most approved and advanced perfection, and purchase
+walking-sticks of bewildering variety and beauty.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 284px;">
+<img src="images/img621.jpg" width="284" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;the doctor grew delighted.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The ladies of our party decreed they had no wish to visit the gaol&mdash;a
+decision on their part which annoyed Jefferson considerably. He
+explained that the St. Kitts prison-house was, perhaps, better worth
+seeing than anything on the island; he also added that a book was kept
+there in which we should be invited to write our names and make remarks.
+They were proof, however, against even this inducement; and, having seen
+the church&mdash;a very English building, with homely little square tower&mdash;we
+left our Enchantress and her parent at the photographer&#8217;s, to make such
+purchases as seemed good to them, and await our return.</p>
+
+<p>In this picture-shop, by the way, the Doctor grew almost boisterously
+delighted over a deplorable representation of negro lepers. Young and
+old, male and female, halt and maimed, the poor sufferers had been
+photographed in a long row; and my brother secured the entire panorama
+of them and whined for more. These lamentable representations of lepers
+gave him keener pleasure than anything he had seen since we left the
+Trinidad Hospital. In future, when we reached a new port, he would
+always hurry off to photographers&#8217; shops, where they existed, and simply
+clamour for lepers.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_622" id="Page_622">[Pg 622]</a></span>
+I asked Jefferson, as we proceeded to the prison, whether he thought we
+should be allowed to peer about among the inner secrets of the place,
+and he answered: &ldquo;You see ebb&#8217;ryting, sar; de head p&#8217;liceman great ole
+fren&#8217; of mine.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>My brother said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You seem to know all the best people in St. Kitts, Jefferson.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And he admitted that it was so. He replied:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jefferson &#8217;quainted wid ebb&#8217;rybody, an&#8217; ebb&#8217;rybody &#8217;quainted wid
+Jefferson.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Which put his position in a nutshell.</p>
+
+<p>The prison was not very impressive viewed from outside, being but a mere
+mean black and white building, with outer walls which experienced
+criminals at home would have smiled at. We rang a noisy bell, and were
+allowed to enter upon the demand of Jefferson.</p>
+
+<p>Four sinners immediately met our gaze. They sat pensively breaking
+stones in a wide courtyard. A building, with barred windows, threw black
+shade upon the blazing white ground of this open space; and here,
+shielded from the sun, the convicts reclined and made a show of work.
+Jefferson, with rather a lack of delicate feeling, drew up before this
+little stone-breaking party and beamed upon it. The Doctor and I walked
+past and tried to look as though we saw nobody, but our guide did not
+choose that we should miss the most interesting thing in the place thus.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Look har, gem&#8217;men; see dese prisoners breakin&#8217; stones.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;All right, all right,&rdquo; answered my brother; &ldquo;push on; don&#8217;t stand
+staring there. We haven&#8217;t come to gloat over those poor devils.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But I really think the culprits were as disappointed as Jefferson. They
+evidently felt that they were the most important part of the entire
+spectacle, and rather resented being passed over.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You won&#8217;t see no more prisoners, if you don&#8217;t look at dese, sar,&rdquo;
+answered Jefferson. &ldquo;Dar&#8217;s only terrible few convics in de gaol jus&#8217;
+now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So much the better,&rdquo; answered the unsympathetic Doctor.</p>
+
+<p>It certainly appeared to be a most lonely and languishing place of
+incarceration. We inspected the cells, and observed in one of them a
+peculiar handle fastened against the wall. This proved to be a West
+Indian substitute for the treadmill. The turning of the handle can be
+made easy or difficult by an arrangement of screws without the cell. The
+affair is set for a certain number of revolutions, and a warder
+explained to us that where hard labour
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_623" id="Page_623">[Pg 623]</a></span>
+has been meted to a prisoner, he
+spends long, weary hours struggling with this apparatus and earning his
+meals. When the necessary number of turns are completed, a bell rings,
+and one can easily picture the relief in many an erring black man&#8217;s
+heart upon the sound of it. At another corner of the courtyard was piled
+a great heap of cannon-balls. These were used for shot-drill&mdash;an arduous
+form of exercise calculated to tame the wildest spirit and break the
+strongest back. The whitewashed cells were wonderfully clean and
+wholesome&mdash;more so, in fact, than most public apartments I saw elsewhere
+in the West Indies. This effect may be produced in some measure by the
+absolute lack of household goods and utensils, pictures or
+<em>bric-&agrave;-brac</em>. In fact, the only piece of furniture I could find
+anywhere was a massive wooden tripod, used for flogging prisoners upon.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 405px;">
+<img src="images/img623.jpg" width="405" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a chat with the superintendent.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Then we went in to have a chat with the Superintendent. He was rather
+nervous and downcast, and apparently feared that we had formed a poor
+opinion of his gaol. He apologised quite humbly for the paucity of
+prisoners, and explained that times were bad, and there was little or
+nothing doing in the criminal world of St. Kitts. He really did not know
+what had come to the place lately. He perfectly remembered, in the good
+old days, having had above fifty prisoners at a time in his hands. Why,
+blacks had been hung there before now. But of late days business grew to
+be a mere farce. If anybody did do anything of a capitally criminal
+nature at St. Kitts, during the next twenty years or so, he very much
+doubted if the authorities would permit him to carry the affair
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_624" id="Page_624">[Pg 624]</a></span>
+through. His opinion was that an assassin would be taken away altogether
+and bestowed upon Antigua. I asked him how he accounted for such a
+stagnation in crime, and he answered, rather bitterly, that the churches
+and chapels and Moravian missions had to be thanked for it. There were
+far too many of them. Ordinary human instincts were frustrated at every
+turn. Little paltry sects of nobodies filled their tin meeting-houses
+Sunday after Sunday, and yet an important Government institution, like
+the gaol, remained practically empty. He could not understand it. At the
+rate things were going, it would be necessary to shut his prison up
+altogether in a year&#8217;s time. Certainly, one of his present charges&mdash;a
+man he felt proud of in every way&mdash;was sentenced to penal servitude for
+life, and had only lately made a determined attempt to escape. But he
+could hardly expect the Government to keep up an entire gaol, with
+warders and a Superintendent and everything, for one man, however wicked
+he might be. I tried to cheer him up, and spoke hopefully about the
+natural depravity of everything human. I said:</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 282px;">
+<img src="images/img624.jpg" width="282" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;filled half a page with complimentary criticism.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You must look forward. The Powers of Evil are by no means played out
+yet. Black sheep occur in every fold. After periods of drought, seasons
+of great plenty frequently ensue. There should be magnificent raw
+material in this island, which will presently mature and keep you as
+busy as a bee.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Dar&#8217;s my son, too,&rdquo; said Jefferson, encouragingly; &ldquo;I&#8217;se pretty sure
+you hab him &#8217;fore long.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then the man grew slightly more sanguine, and asked if we should care to
+sign his book, and make a few remarks in it before departing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Of course I know it&#8217;s only a small prison at best,&rdquo; he said,
+deferentially.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;As to that,&rdquo; answered the Doctor, speaking for himself, &ldquo;I have
+certainly been in a great many bigger ones, but never in any house of
+detention better conducted and cleaner kept than
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_625" id="Page_625">[Pg 625]</a></span>
+yours. You deserve
+more ample recognition. I should judge you to be a man second to none in
+your management of malefactors. For my part, I will assuredly write this
+much in your book.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The volume was produced, and my brother sat down and expatiated about
+the charms and advantages of St. Kitts prison-house. He filled half a
+page with complimentary and irresponsible criticism; then he handed the
+book to me. The Superintendent said that he should take it as
+particularly kind if, in my remarks, I would insert a good word for the
+drainage system. Advised by the Doctor that I might do so with truth and
+justice, I wrote as follows:</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 264px;">
+<img src="images/img625.jpg" width="264" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;saluting his many friends.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A remarkably clean, ably-managed, and well-ordered establishment, with
+an admirable staff of officials, a gratifying scarcity of evil-doers,
+and particularly happy sanitary arrangements.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then we went off to rejoin the Enchantress and her mother, and see
+further sights during the brief time which now remained at our disposal.
+The ladies had completed their purchases, and with them we now traversed
+extended portions of the town, and visited a negro colony, where
+thatched roofs peeped out from among tattered plantain leaves, and
+rustic cottages hid in the shade of tamarind and orange, lime and
+cocoanut. The lazy folks lounged about, chewing sugar-cane and munching
+bananas, according to their pleasant custom. The men chattered, and the
+women prattled and played with their yellow and ebony babies. One saw no
+ambition, no proper pride, no obtrusive morality anywhere. Jefferson
+appeared to be a personage in these parts. He marched along saluting his
+many friends and smoking a cigar which the Doctor had given him. He
+stopped occasionally to crack a joke or offer advice; and when we came
+to any negro or negress whose history embraced a matter of interest,
+Jefferson would stop and lecture upon the subject, while he or she stood and
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_626" id="Page_626">[Pg 626]</a></span>
+grinned and admitted his remarks were unquestionably true. As a
+rule, instead of grinning, they ought to have wept, for Jefferson&#8217;s
+anecdotes and scraps of private scandals led me to fear that about
+ninety-nine in a hundred of his cronies ought to be under lock and key,
+in spite of what the prison authorities had told us.</p>
+
+<p>Then we came down through a slum and found ourselves by the sea, upon a
+long, level beach of dark sand. The pier stood half-a-mile ahead, and we
+now determined to proceed without further delay to the boats, return to
+the &ldquo;Rhine,&rdquo; and safely bestow our curiosities before she sailed.
+Apprised of this intention, Jefferson prepared to take leave of our
+party. He assured me that it had given him very considerable pleasure to
+thus devote his morning hours to our service. He trusted that we were
+satisfied with his efforts, and hinted that, though he should not dream
+of levying any formal charge, yet some trifling and negotiable memento
+of us would not be misunderstood or give him the least offence. We
+rewarded him adequately, thanked him much for all his trouble, and hoped
+that, when next we visited St. Kitts, his cheerful face might be the
+first to meet us. He answered:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Please God, gem&#8217;men, I be at de pier-head when next you come &#8217;long.
+Anyhow, you ask for Jefferson.&rdquo; Then, blessing us without stint, he
+departed.</p>
+
+<p>And here I am reluctantly compelled to reprove the white and
+tawny-coloured inhabitants of St. Kitts for a breach of good manners.
+Boat-loads of gentlemen from shore crowded the &ldquo;Rhine,&rdquo; like locusts,
+during her short stay at this island. They inundated the saloon bar,
+scrambled for seats at the luncheon-table, and showed a wild eagerness
+to eat and drink for nothing, which was most unseemly. One would have
+imagined that these worthy folks only enjoyed a hearty meal upon the
+occasional visits of a steamer; for after they had done with us they all
+rowed off to a neighbouring vessel, and boarded her in like manner,
+swarming up her sides to see what they could devour. That the
+intelligent male population of an island should come off to the ships,
+and chat with acquaintances and hear the latest news and enlarge its
+mind, is rational enough; but that it should organise greedy raids upon
+the provisions, and get in the way of the crew and passengers, and eat
+up refreshments which it is not justified in even approaching, appears
+to me unrefined, if not absolutely vulgar.</p>
+
+<p>Leprosy and gluttony are the prevailing disorders at St. Kitts. The
+first is, unfortunately, incurable, but the second might easily
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_627" id="Page_627">[Pg 627]</a></span> be
+remedied, and should be. All that the white inhabitants need is a shade
+more self-control in the matter of other people&#8217;s food, then they will
+be equal to the best of their brothers at home or abroad.</p>
+
+<p>That afternoon the subject of influenza formed a principal theme in the
+smoking-room of the &ldquo;Rhine.&rdquo; Our Fourth Officer said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Probably I am better qualified to discuss it than any of you men; for,
+two years ago, I had a most violent attack of Russian influenza <em>in</em>
+Russia. Mere English, suburban influenza is child&#8217;s-play by comparison.
+I suffered at Odessa on the Black Sea, and my temperature went up to
+just under two hundred, and I singed the bed-clothes. A friend of mine,
+an old shipmate, had it at the same place; and his temperature went
+considerably over two hundred, and he set his bed-clothes on fire and
+was burnt to death, being too weak to escape.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>This reminiscence would seem to show that our Fourth Officer has at last
+exhausted his supplies of facts, and will now no doubt fall back on
+reserves of fiction; which, judged from this sample, are probably very
+extensive. Though few mariners turn novelists, yet it is significant, as
+showing the great bond of union between seafaring life and pure
+imagination, that those who have done so can point to most gratifying
+results.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 323px;">
+<img src="images/img627.jpg" width="323" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;probably i am better qualified to discuss it than any
+of you.&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_628" id="Page_628">[Pg 628]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 291px;">
+<img src="images/img628.jpg" width="291" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">i. zangwill.</span>
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_629" id="Page_629">[Pg 629]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>My First Book.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By I. Zangwill.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Geo. Hutchinson.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p>As it is scarcely two years since my name (which, I hear, is a <em>nom de
+plume</em>) appeared in print on the cover of a book, I may be suspected of
+professional humour when I say I really do not know which was my first
+book. Yet such is the fact. My literary career has been so queer that I
+find it not easy to write my autobibliography.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What is a pound?&rdquo; asked Sir Robert Peel in an interrogative mood futile
+as Pilate&#8217;s. &ldquo;What is a book?&rdquo; I ask, and the dictionary answers with
+its usual dogmatic air, &ldquo;A collection of sheets of paper, or similar
+material, blank, written, or printed, bound together.&rdquo; At this rate my
+first book would be that romance of school life in two volumes, which,
+written in a couple of exercise books, circulated gratuitously in the
+schoolroom, and pleased our youthful imaginations with teacher-baiting
+tricks we had not the pluck to carry out in the actual. I shall always
+remember this story because, after making the tour of the class, it was
+returned to me with thanks and a new first page from which all my graces
+of style had evaporated. Indignant enquiry discovered the criminal&mdash;he
+admitted he had lost the page, and had rewritten it from memory. He
+pleaded that it was better written (which in one sense was true), and
+that none of the facts had been omitted.</p>
+
+<p>This ill-treated tale was &ldquo;published&rdquo; when I was ten, but an old
+schoolfellow recently wrote to me reminding me of an earlier novel
+written in an old account book. Of this I have no recollection, but, as
+he says he wrote it day by day at my dictation, I suppose he ought to
+know. I am glad to find I had so early achieved the distinction of
+keeping an amanuensis.</p>
+
+<p>The dignity of print I achieved not much later, contributing verses and
+virtuous essays to various juvenile organs. But it was not till I was
+eighteen that I achieved a printed first book. The story of this first
+book is peculiar; and, to tell it in approved story form, I must request
+the reader to come back two years with me.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_630" id="Page_630">[Pg 630]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 317px;">
+<img src="images/img630a.jpg" width="317" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;looking for toole.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>One fine day, when I was sixteen, I was wandering about the Ramsgate
+sands looking for Toole. I did not really expect to see him, and I had
+no reason to believe he was in Ramsgate, but I thought if providence
+were kind to him it might throw him in my way. I wanted to do him a good
+turn. I had written a three-act farcical comedy at the request of an
+amateur dramatic club. I had written out all the parts, and I think
+there were rehearsals. But the play was never produced. In the light of
+after knowledge I suspect some of those actors must have been of quite
+professional calibre. You understand, therefore, why my thoughts turned
+to Toole. But I could not find Toole. Instead, I found on the sands a
+page of a paper called <em>Society</em>. It is still running merrily at a
+penny, but at that time it had also a Saturday edition at threepence. On
+this page was a great prize-competition scheme, as well as details of a
+regular weekly competition. The competitions in those days were always
+literary and intellectual, but then popular education had not made such
+strides as to-day.</p>
+
+<p>I sat down on the spot, and wrote something which took a prize in the
+weekly competition. This emboldened me to enter for the great stakes.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 183px;">
+<img src="images/img630b.jpg" width="183" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;i sat down and wrote something.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>There were various events. I resolved to enter for two. One was a short
+novel, and the other a comedietta. The &ldquo;&pound;5 humorous story&rdquo; competition I
+did not go in
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_631" id="Page_631">[Pg 631]</a></span>
+for; but when the last day of sending in MSS. for that
+had passed, I reproached myself with not having despatched one of my
+manuscripts. Modesty had prevented me sending in old work, as I felt
+assured it would stand no chance, but when it was too late I was annoyed
+with myself for having thrown away a possibility. After all I could have
+lost nothing. Then I discovered that I had mistaken the last date, and
+that there was still a day. In the joyful reaction I selected a story
+called &ldquo;Professor Grimmer,&rdquo; and sent it in. Judge of my amazement when
+this got the prize (&pound;5), and was published in serial form, running
+through three numbers of <em>Society</em>. Last year, at a press dinner, I
+found myself next to Mr. Arthur Goddard, who told me he had acted as
+Competition Editor, and that quite a number of now well-known people had
+taken part in these admirable competitions. My painfully laboured novel
+only got honourable mention, and my comedietta was lost in the post.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 183px;">
+<img src="images/img631.jpg" width="183" height="250" alt="Arthur Goddard" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p>But I was now at the height of literary fame, and success stimulated me
+to fresh work. I still marvel when I think of the amount of rubbish I
+turned out in my seventeenth and eighteenth years, in the scanty leisure
+of a harassed pupil-teacher at an elementary school, working hard in the
+evenings for a degree at the London University to boot. There was a
+fellow pupil-teacher (let us call him Y.) who believed in me, and who
+had a little money with which to back his belief. I was for starting a
+comic paper. The name was to be <em>Grimaldi</em>, and I was to write it all
+every week.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But don&#8217;t you think your invention would give way ultimately?&rdquo; asked Y.
+It was the only time he ever doubted me.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;By that time I shall be able to afford a staff,&rdquo; I replied
+triumphantly.</p>
+
+<p>Y. was convinced. But before the comic paper was born, Y.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_632" id="Page_632">[Pg 632]</a></span> had another
+happy thought. He suggested that if I wrote a Jewish story, we might
+make enough to finance the comic paper. I was quite willing. If he had
+suggested an epic, I should have written it.</p>
+
+<p>So I wrote the story in four evenings (I always write in spurts), and
+within ten days from the inception of the idea the booklet was on sale
+in a coverless pamphlet form. The printing cost ten pounds. I paid five
+(the five I had won), Y. paid five, and we divided the profits. He has
+since not become a publisher.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 350px;">
+<img src="images/img632.jpg" width="350" height="254" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;it was hawked about the streets.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>My first book (price one penny nett) went well. It was loudly denounced
+by Jews, and widely bought by them; it was hawked about the streets. One
+little shop in Whitechapel sold four hundred copies. It was even on
+Smith&#8217;s book-stalls. There was great curiosity among Jews to know the
+name of the writer. Owing to my anonymity, I was enabled to see those
+enjoying its perusal, who were afterwards to explain to me their horror
+and disgust at its illiteracy and vulgarity. By vulgarity vulgar Jews
+mean the reproduction of the Hebrew words with which the poor and the
+old-fashioned interlard their conversation. It is as if English-speaking
+Scotchmen and Irishmen should object to &ldquo;dialect&rdquo; novels reproducing the
+idiom of their &ldquo;uncultured&rdquo; countrymen. I do not possess a copy of my
+first book, but somehow or other I discovered the MS. when writing
+<em>Children of the Ghetto</em>. The description of market-day in Jewry was
+transferred bodily from the MS. of my first book, and is now generally
+admired.</p>
+
+<p>What the profits were I never knew, for they were invested in the second
+of our publications. Still jealously keeping the authorship secret, we
+published a long comic ballad which I had
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_633" id="Page_633">[Pg 633]</a></span>
+written on the model of Bab.
+With this we determined to launch out in style, and so we had gorgeous
+advertisement posters printed in three colours, which were to be stuck
+about London to beautify that great dreary city. Y. saw the back-hair of
+Fortune almost within our grasp.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 234px;">
+<img src="images/img633.jpg" width="234" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a policeman told him<br />
+to get down.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>One morning our headmaster walked into my room with a portentously
+solemn air. I felt instinctively that the murder was out. But he only
+said &ldquo;Where is Y.?&rdquo; though the mere coupling of our names was ominous,
+for our publishing partnership was unknown. I replied, &ldquo;How should I
+know? In his room, I suppose.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He gave me a peculiar sceptical glance.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When did you last see Y.?&rdquo; he said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yesterday afternoon,&rdquo; I replied wonderingly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And you don&#8217;t know where he is now?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Haven&#8217;t an idea&mdash;isn&#8217;t he in school?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; he replied in low, awful tones.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where then?&rdquo; I murmured.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em>In prison!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In prison,&rdquo; I gasped.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In prison; I have just been to help bail him out.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It transpired that Y. had suddenly been taken with a further happy
+thought. Contemplation of those gorgeous tricoloured posters had turned
+his brain, and, armed with an amateur paste-pot and a ladder, he had
+sallied forth at midnight to stick them about the silent streets, so as
+to cut down the publishing expenses. A policeman, observing him at work,
+had told him to get down, and Y., being legal-minded, had argued it out
+with the policeman <em>de haut en bas</em> from the top of his ladder. The
+outraged majesty of the law thereupon haled Y. off to the cells.</p>
+
+<p>Naturally the cat was now out of the bag, and the fat in the fire.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_634" id="Page_634">[Pg 634]</a></span>
+To explain away the poster was beyond the ingenuity of even a professed
+fiction-monger.</p>
+
+<p>Straightway the committee of the school was summoned in hot haste, and
+held debate upon the scandal of a pupil-teacher being guilty of
+originality. And one dread afternoon, when all Nature seemed to hold its
+breath, I was called down to interview a member of the committee. In his
+hand were copies of the obnoxious publications.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 242px;">
+<img src="images/img634.jpg" width="242" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;such stuff as little boys scribble up on walls.&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>I approached the great person with beating heart. He had been kind to me
+in the past, singling me out, on account of some scholastic successes,
+for an annual vacation at the seaside. It has only just struck me, after
+all these years, that, if he had not done so, I should not have found
+the page of <em>Society</em>, and so not have perpetrated the deplorable
+compositions.</p>
+
+<p>In the course of a bad quarter of an hour, he told me that the ballad
+was tolerable, though not to be endured; he admitted the metre was
+perfect, and there wasn&#8217;t a single false rhyme. But the prose novelette
+was disgusting. &ldquo;It is such stuff,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as little boys scribble up
+on walls.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I said I could not see anything objectionable in it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Come now, confess you are ashamed of it,&rdquo; he urged. &ldquo;You only wrote it
+to make money.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If you mean that I deliberately wrote low stuff to make money,&rdquo; I
+replied calmly, &ldquo;it is untrue. There is nothing I am ashamed of. What
+you object to is simply realism.&rdquo; I pointed out Bret Harte had been as
+realistic, but they did not understand literature on that committee.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Confess you are ashamed of yourself,&rdquo; he reiterated, &ldquo;and we will look
+over it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am not,&rdquo; I persisted, though I foresaw only too clearly that
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_635" id="Page_635">[Pg 635]</a></span> my
+summer&#8217;s vacation was doomed if I told the truth. &ldquo;What is the use of
+saying I am?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The headmaster uplifted his hands in horror. &ldquo;How, after all your
+kindness to him, he can contradict you&mdash;&mdash;!&rdquo; he cried.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When I come to be your age,&rdquo; I conceded to the member of the committee,
+&ldquo;it is possible I may look back on it with shame. At present I feel
+none.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>In the end I was given the alternative of expulsion or of publishing
+nothing which had not passed the censorship of the committee. After
+considerable hesitation I chose the latter.</p>
+
+<p>This was a blessing in disguise; for, as I have never been able to
+endure the slightest arbitrary interference with my work, I simply
+abstained from publishing. Thus, although I still wrote&mdash;mainly
+sentimental verses&mdash;my nocturnal studies were less interrupted. Not till
+I had graduated, and was of age, did I return to my inky vomit. Then
+came my next first book&mdash;a real book at last.</p>
+
+<p>In this also I had the collaboration of a fellow-teacher, Louis Cowen by
+name. This time my colleague was part-author. It was only gradually that
+I had been admitted to the privilege of communion with him, for he was
+my senior by five or six years, and a man of brilliant parts who had
+already won his spurs in journalism, and who enjoyed deservedly the
+reputation of an Admirable Crichton. What drew me to him was his mordant
+wit (to-day, alas! wasted on anonymous journalism! If he would only
+reconsider his indetermination, the reading public would be the richer!)
+Together we planned plays, novels, treatises on political economy, and
+contributions to philosophy. Those were the days of dreams.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 338px;">
+<img src="images/img636.jpg" width="338" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">life in bethnal green.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>One afternoon he came to me with quivering sides, and told me that an
+idea for a little shilling book had occurred to him. It was that a
+Radical Prime Minister and a Conservative working man should change into
+each other by supernatural means, and the working man be confronted with
+the problem of governing, while the Prime Minister should be as
+comically out of place in the East End environment. He thought it would
+make a funny &ldquo;Arabian Nights&rdquo; sort of burlesque. And so it would have
+done; but, unfortunately, I saw subtler possibilities of political
+satire in it. I insisted the story must be real, not supernatural, the
+Prime Minister must be a Tory, weary of office, and it must be an
+ultra-Radical atheistic artisan bearing a marvellous resemblance to him
+who directs (and with complete success) the Conservative
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_636" id="Page_636">[Pg 636]</a></span>
+Administration. To add to the mischief, owing to my collaborator&#8217;s
+evenings being largely taken up by other work, seven-eighths of the book
+came to be written by me, though the leading ideas were, of course,
+threshed out and the whole revised in common, and thus it became a
+vent-hole for all the ferment of a youth of twenty-one, whose literary
+faculty had furthermore been pent up for years by the potential
+censorship of a committee. The book, instead of being a shilling skit,
+grew to a ten-and-sixpenny (for that was the unfortunate price of
+publication) political treatise of over sixty long
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_637" id="Page_637">[Pg 637]</a></span>
+chapters and 500
+closely-printed pages. I drew all the characters as seriously and
+complexly as if the fundamental conception were a matter of history; the
+out-going Premier became an elaborate study of a nineteenth century
+Hamlet; the Bethnal Green life amid which he came to live was presented
+with photographic fulness and my old trick of realism; the governmental
+man&oelig;uvres were described with infinite detail; numerous real
+personages were introduced under nominal disguises, and subsequent
+history was curiously anticipated in some of the Female Franchise and
+Home Rule episodes. Worst of all, so super-subtle was the satire, that
+it was never actually stated straight out that the Premier had changed
+places with the Radical working man, so that the door might be left open
+for satirically suggested alternative explanations of the metamorphosis
+in their characters; and as, moreover, the two men re-assumed their
+original <em>r&ocirc;les</em> for one night only with infinitely complex effects,
+many readers, otherwise unimpeachable, reached the end without any
+suspicion of the actual plot&mdash;and yet (on their own confession) enjoyed
+the book!</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 183px;">
+<img src="images/img637.jpg" width="183" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;had it sent round.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>In contrast to all this elephantine waggery the half-a-dozen chapters
+near the commencement, in which my collaborator sketched the first
+adventures of the Radical working man in Downing Street, were light and
+sparkling, and I feel sure the shilling skit he originally meditated
+would have been a great success. We christened the book <em>The Premier and
+the Painter</em>, ourselves J. Freeman Bell, had it type-written, and sent
+it round to the publishers in two enormous quarto volumes. I had been
+working at it for more than a year every evening after the hellish
+torture of the day&#8217;s teaching, and all day every holiday, but now I had
+a good rest while it was playing its boomerang prank of returning to me
+once a month. The only gleam of hope came from Bentleys, who wrote to
+say that they could not make up their minds to reject it; but they
+prevailed upon themselves to part with it at last, though not without
+asking to see Mr. Bell&#8217;s next book. At last it was accepted by Spencer
+Blackett, and,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_638" id="Page_638">[Pg 638]</a></span>
+though it had been refused by all the best houses, it
+failed. Failed in a material sense, that is; for there was plenty of
+praise in the papers, though at too long intervals to do us any good.
+The <em>Athen&aelig;um</em> has never spoken so well of anything I have done since.
+The late James Runciman (I learnt after his death that it was he) raved
+about it in various uninfluential organs. It even called forth a leader
+in the <em>Family Herald (!)</em>, and there are odd people here and there, who
+know the secret of J. Freeman Bell, who declare that I. Zangwill will
+never do anything so good. There was some sort of a cheap edition, but
+it did not sell much, and when, some years ago, Spencer Blackett went
+out of business, I acquired the copyright and the remainder copies,
+which are still lying about somewhere. And not only did <em>The Premier and
+the Painter</em> fail with the great public, it did not even help either of
+us one step up the ladder; never got us a letter of encouragement nor a
+stroke of work. I had to begin journalism at the very bottom and
+entirely unassisted, narrowly escaping canvassing for advertisements,
+for I had by this time thrown up my scholastic position, and had gone
+forth into the world penniless and without even a &ldquo;character,&rdquo; branded
+as an Atheist (because I did not worship the Lord who presided over our
+committee) and a Revolutionary (because I refused to break the law of
+the land).</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 370px;">
+<img src="images/img639.jpg" width="370" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. zangwill at work.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>I should stop here if I were certain I had written the required article.
+But as <em>The Premier and the Painter</em> was not entirely <em>my</em> first book, I
+may perhaps be expected to say something of my third first book, and the
+first to which I put my name&mdash;<em>The Bachelors&#8217; Club</em>. Years of literary
+apathy succeeded the failure of <em>The Premier and the Painter</em>. All I did
+was to publish a few serious poems (which, I hope, will survive <em>Time</em>),
+a couple of pseudonymous stories signed &ldquo;The Baroness Von S.&rdquo; (!), and a
+long philosophical essay upon religion, and to lend a hand in the
+writing of a few playlets. Becoming convinced of the irresponsible
+mendacity of the dramatic profession, I gave up the stage, too, vowing
+never to write except on commission, and sank entirely into the slough
+of journalism (glad enough to get there), <em>inter alia</em> editing a comic
+paper (not <em>Grimaldi</em>, but <em>Ariel</em>) with a heavy heart. At last the long
+apathy wore off, and I resolved to cultivate literature again in my
+scraps of time. It is a mere accident that I wrote a pair of &ldquo;funny&rdquo;
+books, or put serious criticism of contemporary manners into a shape not
+understood in a country where only the dull are profound and only the
+ponderous are earnest. <em>The Bachelors&#8217; Club</em> was the result of a whimsical
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_639" id="Page_639">[Pg 639]</a></span>
+remark made by my dear friend, Eder of Bartholomew&#8217;s, with
+whom I was then sharing rooms in Bernard Street, and who helped me
+greatly with it, and its publication was equally accidental. One spring
+day, in the year of grace 1891, having lived unsuccessfully for a score
+of years and seven upon this absurd planet, I crossed Fleet Street and
+stepped into what is called &ldquo;success.&rdquo; It was like this. Mr. J. T.
+Grein, now of the Independent Theatre, meditated a little monthly called
+<em>The Playgoers&#8217; Review</em>, and he asked me to do an article for the first
+number, on the strength of some speeches I had made at
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_640" id="Page_640">[Pg 640]</a></span> the Playgoers&#8217;
+Club. When I got the proof it was marked &ldquo;Please return at once to 6,
+Bouverie Street.&rdquo; My office boy being out, and Bouverie Street being
+only a few steps away, I took it over myself, and found myself, somewhat
+to my surprise, in the office of Henry &amp; Co., publishers, and in the
+presence of Mr. J. Hannaford Bennett, an active partner in the firm. He
+greeted me by name, also to my surprise, and told me he had heard me
+speak at the Playgoers&#8217; Club. A little conversation ensued, and he
+mentioned that his firm was going to bring out a Library of Wit and
+Humour. I told him I had begun a book, avowedly humorous, and had
+written two chapters of it, and he straightway came over to my office,
+heard me read them, and immediately secured the book. (The then editor
+ultimately refused to have it in the &ldquo;Whitefriars&#8217; Library of Wit and
+Humour,&rdquo; and so it was brought out separately.) Within three months,
+working in odds and ends of time, I finished it, correcting the proofs
+of the first chapters while I was writing the last; indeed, ever since
+the day I read those two chapters to Mr. Hannaford Bennett I have never
+written a line anywhere that has not been purchased before it was
+written. For, to my undying astonishment, two average editions of my
+real &ldquo;First Book&rdquo; were disposed of on the day of publication, to say
+nothing of the sale in New York. Unless I had acquired a reputation of
+which I was totally unconscious, it must have been the title that
+&ldquo;fetched&rdquo; the trade. Or, perhaps, it was the illustrations by my friend,
+Mr. George Hutchinson, whom I am proud to have discovered as a
+cartoonist for <em>Ariel</em>.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img640.jpg" width="500" height="248" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;editing a comic paper.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_641" id="Page_641">[Pg 641]</a></span>
+So here the story comes to a nice sensational climax. Re-reading it, I
+feel dimly that there ought to be a moral in it somewhere for the
+benefit of struggling fellow-scribblers. But the best I can find is
+this: That if you are blessed with some talent, a great deal of
+industry, and an amount of conceit mighty enough to enable you to
+disregard superiors, equals and critics, as well as the fancied demands
+of the public, it is possible, without friends, or introductions, or
+bothering celebrities to read your manuscripts, or cultivating the camp
+of the log-rollers, to attain, by dint of slaving day and night for
+years during the flower of your youth, to a fame infinitely less
+widespread than a prize-fighter&#8217;s, and a pecuniary position which you
+might with far less trouble have been born to.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
+<img src="images/img641.jpg" width="300" height="265" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a fame less widespread than<br />
+a prize-fighter&#8217;s.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_642" id="Page_642">[Pg 642]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>By the Light of the Lamp.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Hilda Newman.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Hal Hurst.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p>A day in bed! Oh! the horror of it to a man who has never ailed anything
+in his life! A day away from the excitement (pleasurable or otherwise)
+of business, the moving throng of city streets, the anticipated chats
+with business friends and casual acquaintances&mdash;the world of men.
+Nothing to look upon but the four walls of the room, which, in spite of
+its cosiness, he only associates with dreams, nightmares, and dull
+memories of sleepless nights, and chilly mornings. Nothing to listen to
+but the twittering of the canary downstairs, and the distant wrangling
+of children in the nursery: no one to speak to but the harassed
+housewife, wanted in a dozen places at once, and the pert housemaid,
+whose noisiness is distracting. The man lay there, cursing his
+helplessness. In spite of his iron will, the unseen enemy, who had
+stolen in by night, conquered, holding him down with a hundred tingling
+fingers when he attempted to rise, and drawing a misty veil over his
+eyes when he tried to read, till at last he was forced to resign
+himself, with closed eyes, and turn day into night. But the lowered
+blind was a sorry substitute for the time of rest, and brought him no
+light, refreshing sleep, so, in the spirit, he occupied his customary
+chair at the office, writing and receiving cheques, drawing up new
+circulars, and ordering the clerks about in the abrupt, peremptory
+manner he thought proper to adopt towards subordinates&mdash;the wife
+included.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 335px;">
+<img src="images/img643.jpg" width="335" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;returning with a daintily-spread tray.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>He tortured himself by picturing the disorganisation of the staff in his
+enforced absence&mdash;for he had grown to believe that nothing could prosper
+without his personal supervision, though the head clerk had been ten
+years in his employ. Then he remembered an important document, that
+should have been signed before, and a foreign letter, which probably
+awaited him, and fretted himself into a fever of impatience and
+aggravation.</p>
+
+<p>Just at the climax of his reflections his wife entered the room. She was
+a silent little woman, with weary eyes. Perhaps her burden of household
+cares, and the complaints of an exacting husband, had made her
+prematurely old, for there were already
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_643" id="Page_643">[Pg 643]</a></span>
+silver threads among the dark
+brown coils of hair that were neatly twisted in a bygone fashion, though
+she was young enough to have had a bright colour in her cheek, a merry
+light in her dark eyes, and a smile on her lips. These, and a becoming
+dress, would have made her a pretty woman; but a friendless, convent
+girlhood, followed by an early marriage, and unswerving obedience to the
+calls of a husband and family who demanded and accepted her unceasing
+attention and the sacrifice of her youth, without a word of gratitude or
+sympathy, had made her what she was&mdash;a plain, insignificant,
+faded-looking creature, with unsatisfied yearnings, and heartaches that
+she did not betray, fearing to be misunderstood or ridiculed.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 370px;">
+<img src="images/img644.jpg" width="370" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;fast asleep in the low wicker armchair.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>She listened quietly to his complaints, and bore without reproach his
+mocking answers to her offers of help. Then she softly drew up the
+blind, and went downstairs, returning with a daintily-spread tray. But
+the tempting oysters she had had such trouble to procure were pettishly
+refused, and the tray was not even allowed to be in the room. The wife
+sat down near the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_644" id="Page_644">[Pg 644]</a></span>
+window, and took up a little garment she was
+making&mdash;her face was flushed, and her lips trembled as she stitched and
+folded&mdash;it seemed so hard that she could do nothing to please him,
+knowing, as she did, that he considered hers an idle life, since they
+kept servants to do the work of the house. He did not know of her
+heart-breaking attempts to keep within the limits of her weekly
+allowance, with unexpected calls from the nursery, and kitchen
+breakages; he forgot that it would not go so far now that there were
+more children to clothe and feed, and, when she gently hinted this, he
+hurled the bitter taunt of extravagance at her, not
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_645" id="Page_645">[Pg 645]</a></span>
+dreaming that she
+was really pinched for money, and stinting herself of a hundred and one
+things necessary to her comfort and well-being for the sake of her
+family. Indeed, it was part of his theory never to yield to requests of
+this kind, since they were sure to be followed by others at no distant
+date, and, besides, he greatly prided himself on firmness in domestic
+matters.</p>
+
+<p>She was very worried to-day; anxious about her husband&#8217;s health, and
+sorely grieved at the futility of all her efforts to interest or help
+him. Great tears gathered in her eyes, and were ready to fall, but they
+had to be forced back, for she was called out of the room again.</p>
+
+<p>And so it went on throughout the afternoon&mdash;in and out&mdash;up and
+down&mdash;never resting&mdash;never still&mdash;her thoughts always with the
+discontented invalid, who fell asleep towards evening, after a
+satisfactory meal, cooked and served by his patient helpmate, and eaten
+in a desultory manner, as if its speedier consumption would imply too
+much appreciation of her culinary kindness.</p>
+
+<p>About midnight he awoke, refreshed in body and mind, and singularly
+clear of brain.</p>
+
+<p>His first feeling was one of intense relief, for he felt quite free from
+pain, and to-morrow would find him in town, writing and scolding&mdash;in
+short, himself again. He sat up in bed, and looked round. The gas was
+turned low, but on a little table consecrated to his wants stood a
+carefully-shaded lamp. By its soft light he discovered his wife, fast
+asleep in the low, wicker armchair, whose gay chintz cover contrasted
+strangely with her neat dark dress. She had evidently meant to sit up
+all night in case he felt worse, but had succumbed from sheer weariness,
+still grasping the tiny frock she had been mending. He noticed her
+roughened forefinger, but excused it, when he saw the little, even
+stitches. Finally, he decided not to disturb her, but, as he settled
+down again on the comfortable pillow, he was haunted by the image of her
+pale face, and, raising himself on his elbow, looked at her again,
+reflectively. She was certainly very white.</p>
+
+<p>He blamed the lamplight at first, but his conscience spoke clearly in
+the dim silence, as he recalled her anxiety for him, and her gentle,
+restless footsteps on the stairs, and, now that he began to think of it,
+she had not eaten all day. He scolded her severely for it in his mind.
+Was there not plenty for her if she wanted it?</p>
+
+<p>But that inner self would not be silenced. &ldquo;How about her idle life?&rdquo; it
+said&mdash;&ldquo;has she had time to eat to-day?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He could not answer.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_646" id="Page_646">[Pg 646]</a></span>
+She sighed in her sleep, and her lashes were wet as from recent tears.
+For the first time he noticed the silver hairs, and the lines about her
+eyes, and wondered at them.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 318px;">
+<img src="images/img646.jpg" width="318" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;sobbing out years of loneliness.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>And the still, small voice pierced his heart, saying, &ldquo;Whose fault is
+it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>As he shut his eyes&mdash;vainly endeavouring to dismiss the unwelcome
+thoughts that came crowding in upon his mind, and
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_647" id="Page_647">[Pg 647]</a></span>
+threatened to destroy
+his belief in the perfect theory he loved to expound&mdash;a past day rose
+before him. He held her hand, and, looking into her timid, girlish face,
+said to himself, &ldquo;I can mould her to my will.&rdquo; Then she came to him,
+alone and friendless, with no one to help hide her inexperience and
+nervousness.</p>
+
+<p>He recalled the gentle questions he was always too busy to answer, till
+they troubled him no more; and the silent reproach of her quivering lips
+when he blamed her for some little household error. And, though he
+believed that his training had made her useful and independent, he
+remembered, with a pang of remorse, many occasions on which an
+affectionate word of appreciation had hovered on his tongue, and
+wondered what foolish pride or reserve had made him hesitate and choke
+it down, when he knew what it meant to her. Birthdays, and all those
+little anniversaries which stand out clearly on the calendar of a
+woman&#8217;s heart, he had forgotten, or remembered only when the time for
+wishes and kisses was over. Yet he had never reproached himself for this
+before. But to-day he had seen enough to understand something of the
+responsibility that rested on her, the ignorance of the servants, the
+healthy, clamouring children, who would only obey <em>her</em>, and the hundred
+and one daily incidents that would have worried him into a frenzy, but
+which only left her serene and patient, and anxious to do her duty. The
+poor wan face had grown lovely to him, and the lines on her forehead
+spoke with an eloquence beyond the most passionate appeal for sympathy
+that she could have uttered&mdash;what would the house be without her? What
+if he were going to lose her? His heart was shaken by a terrible fear as
+he sat up with misty eyes, and, brokenly uttering her name, held out his
+arms imploringly.</p>
+
+<p><em>Oh! God, if she should never wake again!</em>.... But she answered him,
+breathlessly, waking from a wonderful dream, in which she saw him
+wandering afar through a fragrant garden, that she longed to enter&mdash;then
+as she wept, despairingly hiding her face in her hands, she heard him
+calling her, first softly, then louder&mdash;and louder&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>And the garden faded away.</p>
+
+<p>But the dawn found her sobbing out years of loneliness on her husband&#8217;s
+breast.</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_648" id="Page_648">[Pg 648]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>Memoirs of a Female Nihilist.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Sophie Wassilieff.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by J. St. M. Fitz-Gerald.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p class="center"><strong>III.&mdash;ONE DAY.</strong></p>
+
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 347px;">
+<img src="images/img648.jpg" width="347" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;at breakfast.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Eight o&#8217;clock in the morning. I am taking my tea while idly turning over
+the leaves of a book, when the noise of an explosion causes me to
+suddenly raise my head. Explosions are not of rare occurrence at the
+fortress of X&mdash;&mdash;, of which the outer wall encloses several hundred
+barrack rooms and places where the garrison are exercised, and I am
+quite accustomed to the noise of cannon and small arms. This solitary
+explosion, however, seemed so close at hand, and has so strongly shaken
+the prison, that, anxious to know what has happened, I rise and approach
+the door and listen. A few moments of silence&mdash;then, suddenly, from
+somewhere in the corridor, comes the jingle of spurs, the clash of
+swords, and the sound of voices. At first, all this noise is stationary,
+then gradually it grows and appears to spread on all sides. Something
+extraordinary has surely happened behind this heavy door, something is
+now happening which causes me anxiety. But what is it? Standing on
+tip-toes, I try to look through the small square of glass covering the
+wicket, but the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_649" id="Page_649">[Pg 649]</a></span>
+outside shutter is closed, and in spite of the habit
+which I and other prisoners have of finding some small aperture through
+which a glimpse of the corridor may be obtained, to-day I can see
+nothing. Only the noise of heavy and rapid footsteps, each moment
+stronger and more distinct, comes to my ears. I seem to hear in the
+distance the choked and panting voice of Captain W&mdash;&mdash; asking some
+question, then another nearer and unknown voice replies&mdash;&ldquo;Oh! yes,
+killed! Killed outright!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 294px;">
+<img src="images/img649.jpg" width="294" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;breaking the cell doors.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Killed? Who? How and why? Killed? My God! Have I heard aright? Killed!
+No, no; it is impossible! Breathless, and with beating heart, I consider
+for a moment in order to find some pretext for having this heavy door
+opened. Shall I ask to see the director&mdash;or the doctor&mdash;or say I am
+thirsty and have no water? The latter is the most simple, and, my jug
+hastily emptied, I return to the wicket to knock. In ordinary times the
+slightest blow struck on the little square of glass brings my &ldquo;blue
+angel,&rdquo; the warder. Now, I knock loudly, and again and again. The
+intervals seem like an eternity, but the little shutter remains closed,
+while the sound of spurs, swords, and voices cross each other in the
+corridor, sometimes near, then dying away into the distance. A few
+moments more of anxious waiting and agony almost insupportable, then I
+raise my arm determined to break the window, when a new noise from the
+outside causes a shudder to run through me.</p>
+
+<p>Clear and sharp, the noise is that of windows broken in rapid
+succession; it is the signal that the prisoners have revolted. Distant
+at first, the noise approaches with lightning-like rapidity
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_650" id="Page_650">[Pg 650]</a></span> on the side
+of the principal building of the prison, and as it approaches it is
+accompanied by cries and loud questioning. Without knowing the cause of
+the outbreak, I seize the first hard object that comes to my hand, a
+dictionary, and with one bound I am on my table, and in my turn break
+the glass of my window, the fragments of which ring gaily as they fall,
+some into the court-yard, and the others on the stone floor of my cell.</p>
+
+<p>As the window falls to pieces a flood of light invades my cell, and I
+feel the warm air, and smell a perfume as of new-mown hay. For a moment
+I am blinded, suffocated, then with both hands I seize the iron bars and
+draw myself up to the narrow window ledge. A confused noise of breaking
+glass gradually passing away in the distance, and the cracking of wood
+fills the pure air of the glorious summer morning; while on all sides
+are heard the voices of anxious men and women, all asking the same
+questions, &ldquo;What has happened? Why are we revolting?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 369px;">
+<img src="images/img650.jpg" width="369" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;shot him through the head.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>For a long time these questions remain unanswered, then at last a new
+and distant voice&mdash;at times rendered inaudible by the wind&mdash;announces
+that a warder, or a guard, has killed one of our comrades, the prisoner
+Ivanoff, in his cell, and that the prisoners in the other buildings are
+breaking the furniture and the cell doors.</p>
+
+<p>This reply, which comrades transmit from window to window, petrifies me.
+After hearing the explosion and the words spoken in the corridor; after
+a long and anxious incertitude; after this announcement of a revolt in
+which I myself am taking part&mdash;the reply is not unexpected. And yet I
+understand nothing of the matter; I am thoroughly upset, and my brain
+refuses to understand and believe. Killed? Ivanoff, the youth whom, by
+the way, I do not know personally. Killed? But why? Without weapons and
+under lock and key, what can he have done to deserve death? Has he
+attempted to escape? But does one
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_651" id="Page_651">[Pg 651]</a></span>
+attempt such an enterprise in open
+day and under the eyes of sentries and warders? Besides, Ivanoff had
+committed no other crime than fetching from the post-office a letter
+intended for one of his friends whose name he refused to give, while the
+friend, arrested since, has assumed the responsibility of the
+correspondence. Ivanoff was to have been liberated on bail in the course
+of a few days, and do those in such a position attempt escape on the eve
+of their release? But why, why has he been killed?</p>
+
+<p>These questions I ask myself while the sound of breaking glass
+continues. My neighbours appear to have been pursuing a train of thought
+similar to mine, for I hear several of them calling to our informant,
+and enquiring, &ldquo;How and why was he killed?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then a long, long, anxious wait, and then the reply, &ldquo;Yes, killed!&rdquo; Not
+by a warder, but by a sentry on guard in the court-yard, who, seeing
+Ivanoff at his window, shot him through the head. The occupier of a
+neighbouring cell, also at that moment at his window, saw the shot
+fired. Others heard the fall of the body. Some have called to him, and
+received no reply; therefore Ivanoff is dead. As to why he was
+assassinated, nobody knows.</p>
+
+<p>This recital, several times interrupted by noises and screams, is
+nevertheless clear and precise. My neighbours, one after the other,
+descend from their windows, and commence to break up furniture and
+attack the doors. I follow their example, and recommence my work of
+destruction. Water-bottle, glass, basin, the wicket in the door, and all
+that is fragile in my cell flies to pieces, and, with the broken glass
+from the window, covers the floor. In spite of the feverish haste with
+which I accomplish this sad task, my heart is not in the work. All this
+is so unexpected, so unreal, so violent, that it bewilders me. But
+through the bewilderment the questions, &ldquo;Is it possible? And why?&rdquo;
+continue to force their way. Then I say to myself, &ldquo;If this man, this
+soldier, has really killed Ivanoff, it was, perhaps, in a fit of
+drunkenness; or, perhaps, his gun went off accidentally; or, perhaps,
+seeing a prisoner at a window, he thought it an attempt at escape.&rdquo;
+While these ideas, rapid and confused, rush through my brain, I continue
+to break everything breakable that comes under my hands&mdash;because the
+others are doing the same&mdash;because, for prisoners, it is the only means
+of protest. The sentiment, however, which dominates me is not one of
+rage, but of infinite sadness, which presses me down and renders weak my
+trembling arms.</p>
+
+<p>But now the uproar augments. Several prisoners have demolished their
+beds, and with the broken parts are attacking the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_652" id="Page_652">[Pg 652]</a></span>
+doors. The noise of
+iron hurled with force against the oak panels dominates all others.
+Through my broken wicket, I hear the voice of the Commandant ordering
+the soldiers to fire on any prisoner leaving his cell, and to the
+warders to manacle all those who are attempting to break down their
+doors.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 278px;">
+<img src="images/img652.jpg" width="278" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;nadine&#8217;s door forced.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>All these noises, blended with screams and imprecations, the jingle of
+spurs, the clatter of sword-scabbards crossing and recrossing each
+other, excite and intoxicate me. Wild at my lack of energy and strength,
+I seize with both hands my stool. It is old and worm-eaten, and after I
+have several times flung it on the floor, the joints give way, and it
+falls to pieces. As I turn to find some other object for destruction, a
+flushed and agitated face appears at the wicket, and a moment later the
+door is partly opened, and a warder pushes with violence a woman into my
+cell. So great is the force employed, and so rapid the movement, that I
+have difficulty in seizing her in my arms to prevent her falling upon
+the floor amongst the broken glass and <em>d&eacute;bris</em> of furniture.</p>
+
+<p>This unexpected visitor is one of my friends and fellow-captives, Nadine
+B&mdash;&mdash;. Surprised at this unexpected meeting, and the conditions under
+which it takes place, we are for some instants speechless, but during
+those few moments I again see all our past, and also note the changes
+which ten months&#8217; imprisonment have wrought in my friend; then, very
+pale, and trembling with nervous excitement, Nadine explains that her
+door having been forced during a struggle in the corridor, an officer
+ordered her to be removed and locked up with another female prisoner.
+Her cell was in the same corridor as that of Ivanoff, and of the death
+of the latter there is no doubt. Several comrades, her neighbours,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_653" id="Page_653">[Pg 653]</a></span> have
+seen the body taken away. As to the grounds for his assassination, she
+heard a group of officers, before her door, conversing, and one said
+that the Commandant, not satisfied with the manner in which the warders
+in the corridors discharged their duties in watching the prisoners, gave
+orders to the sentries to watch from the court-yard and to shoot any
+prisoner who appeared at his window.</p>
+
+<p>This, then, is the reason for this assassination, in open day, of a
+defenceless prisoner! The penalty of death for disobedience to one of
+the prison regulations. Is this, then, a caprice, or an access of
+ill-temper, on the part of an officer who has no authority in this
+matter, since prisoners awaiting trial are only responsible to the
+representatives of our so-called justice? Like a thunderclap this
+explanation drives away my hesitation and sadness, which are now
+replaced by indignation and a limitless horror; and while Nadine, sick
+and worn, throws herself upon my bed, I mount to my window in order to
+communicate the news to my neighbours. The narrow court-yard, into which
+the sunshine streams, is, as usual, empty, excepting for the sentry on
+his eternal march. Above the wall I see a row of soldiers and
+workwomen&#8217;s faces, all pale, as they look at the prison and listen to
+the noises. As I appear at the window a woman covers her face with her
+hands and screams, and I recognise her as the wife of one of our
+comrades, a workman. This cry, this gesture, the word &ldquo;torture&rdquo; that I
+hear run along the crest of the wall&mdash;all this at first surprises me.
+As, however, I follow the direction of the eyes of those gazing at me, I
+discover the cause. My hands, by which I am holding myself to the window
+bars, are covered with blood, the result of my recent work of
+destruction of glass and woodwork. There is blood, too, on my
+light-coloured dress. Poor woman! By voice and gesture I try to calm
+her. But does she hear me down there? The sentry looks towards me. He is
+young and very pale, and in his eyes, stupefied by what is going on
+around him, there is a world of carelessness and passiveness, and as I
+look into them a shudder of agony and despair passes through me.</p>
+
+<p>The voice of Nadine calling brings me to her side. Partly unconscious,
+she sobs in the commencement of a nervous crisis, and asks for water.
+Water! I have none. Not a drop! What is to be done?</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_654" id="Page_654">[Pg 654]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 308px;">
+<img src="images/img654.jpg" width="308" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a soldier seizes them.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>And while I try to calm her with gentle words and caresses, and look
+round in the vain hope that some few drops of the precious fluid may
+have escaped my notice, the door of the cell is suddenly
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_655" id="Page_655">[Pg 655]</a></span> opened, and
+several soldiers, drunk with the uproar and the fight, rush in. A cry of
+horror escapes me, and instinctively I retreat behind my bed. The noise
+of chains and the voice of the Commandant ordering that all prisoners be
+immediately manacled, reassures me. Ah! the chains! Only the chains! I
+do not intend to resist. All resistance on my part would be useless.
+Besides, I am anxious to be rid of the presence of these soldiers, and
+would willingly hold out to them my bleeding hands, if a confused idea
+in my brain did not tell me that such an act would be one of cowardice.
+And now a soldier seizes them, and drawing them behind my back, fastens
+heavy iron manacles to my wrists. Another attempts a similar operation
+upon Nadine, who, frightened, struggles and screams. Making an effort to
+calm her, I try to approach, but a sudden jerk on the chain attached to
+my manacles causes intense pain in my arms, and a rough voice cries
+&ldquo;Back.&rdquo; Back? Why? I do not want to abandon Nadine, and instinctively I
+grasp the bed behind me. Another and a stronger jerk, I stumble, and a
+piece of broken glass pierces my thin shoe, and cuts my foot, and I am
+pulled backwards. I am now against that part of the wall where, at the
+height of about three feet, there is an iron ring, and whilst one of the
+soldiers attaches my chain to this ring Nadine is dragged towards the
+opposite wall.</p>
+
+<p>All this passes quickly in our cell, and the soldiers are soon gone and
+the door closed and locked. But in other cells prisoners resist, and as
+the struggle goes on and the noise increases so does the beating of my
+heart, and to me the tumult takes the proportions of a thunderstorm,
+and, broken down, I listen for some time without understanding the
+reason for the uproar.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly the noises die away. Nadine, either calmed or worn out, sobs
+quietly, and in this relative peace, the first for several hours, my
+mind becomes clearer, and I begin to have some idea of what is passing
+in and around me.</p>
+
+<p>My principal preoccupation is Nadine. She is pale, and appears to be so
+exhausted that I momentarily expect her to faint and remain suspended by
+the chains that rattle as she sobs. With a negative motion of her head
+and a few words, she assures me that the crisis is passed, that her arms
+pain her very much, and that she is very thirsty. Chained a few steps
+away, I cannot render her the slightest aid, and the thought of my
+helplessness is a cruel suffering. I, too, suffer in the arms. Heavy,
+they feel as though overrun and stung by thousands of insects, and, when
+I move, that sensation is changed to one of intense pain. My foot,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_656" id="Page_656">[Pg 656]</a></span> too,
+is very painful, and as the blood oozes from my shoe it forms a pool,
+and I am very thirsty. All these sensations are lost in my extreme
+nervous excitement and anxiety for the others, who are now quiet, and
+for Nadine, from whom I instinctively turn my eyes.</p>
+
+<p>It is very warm, and through the broken window I see a large patch of
+sky, so transparent and luminous that my eyes, long accustomed to the
+twilight of my cell, can hardly stand the brightness. There is light
+everywhere. The walls, dry and white at this period of the year, are
+flooded with light, and the sun&#8217;s rays, as they fall on the broken glass
+on the floor, produce thousands of bright star-like points, flashing and
+filling the cell with iridescent stars.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img656.jpg" width="400" height="244" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;chained and thrown face downward.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>With all this light there is the perfume-laden air blowing in at the
+window, and bringing the odours of the country in summer. Such is the
+quiet reigning that I can hear the sound of a distant church bell, can
+count the steps taken by the sentry in the court-yard below, and can
+hear the rustle of leaves of an open book on the floor, turned over by
+the gentle breeze.</p>
+
+<p>But this silence is only intermittent. In one of the cells during the
+struggle preceding the putting on of chains the soldiers threw a
+prisoner on the ground, and, in order to keep him still, one of them
+knelt upon his chest. Fainting, and with broken ribs, the unfortunate is
+rapidly losing his life&#8217;s blood. His brother, a youth, who has been
+thrown into his cell as Nadine was into mine, grows frantic at the sight
+of the blood pouring from the victim&#8217;s mouth, and screams for help. In
+another cell a prisoner who for a long time past has suffered from
+melancholia,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_657" id="Page_657">[Pg 657]</a></span>
+suddenly goes mad, and sings the &ldquo;Marseillaise&rdquo; at the top
+of his voice, laughs wildly, and then shouts orders to imaginary
+soldiers. Elsewhere, of two sisters who for a long time past have shared
+the same cell, the eldest, chained to the wall, is shrieking to her
+sister, who, owing to the rupture of a blood-vessel, has suddenly died.
+At intervals she screams&mdash;&ldquo;Comrades! Helena is dying&mdash;I think she is
+dead.&rdquo; Below, beneath our feet, a prisoner, too tightly manacled, his
+hands and feet pressed back and chained behind and thrown face downward,
+after making desperate efforts to turn over or keep his head up, at last
+gives up the struggle, and with his mouth against the cold stones and a
+choking rattle in his throat, he at intervals moans, &ldquo;Oh! oh!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Each of these cries, accompanied by the strident clank of chains,
+produces upon me the effect of a galvanic battery, and I am obliged to
+put forth all that remains to me of moral strength to prevent myself
+from screaming and moaning like the others. With my feet in blood and my
+eyes burning with weeping, and the effect of the strong light, I try to
+maintain my upright position by leaning against the wall. Then from the
+depths of my heart something arises which causes it to throb as though
+it would burst.</p>
+
+<p>I have never hated! My participation in the revolutionary movement was
+the outcome of my desire to soothe suffering and misery, and to see
+realised the dream of a universal happiness and a universal brotherhood;
+and even here in prison, even this morning, within a few steps of an
+assassinated comrade, I sought explanations, that is to say, excuses; I
+thought of an accident, of a misunderstanding. Now, I hate. I hate with
+all the strength of my soul this stupid and ferocious <em>r&eacute;gime</em> whose
+arbitrary authority puts the lives of thousands of defenceless human
+beings at the mercy of any one of its mercenaries. I hate it, because of
+the sufferings and the tears it has caused; for the obstacles it throws
+in the way of my country&#8217;s development; for the chains which it places
+on thousands of bodies and thousands of souls; because of this thirst
+for blood which is growing within me. Yes! I hate it, and if it sufficed
+to will&mdash;if this tension of my entire being could resolve itself into
+action&mdash;oh! there would at this instant be many heads forming a
+<em>cort&egrave;ge</em> to the bloody head of the comrade who has been so cowardly and
+ferociously assassinated.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 381px;">
+<img src="images/img658.jpg" width="381" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;removed before our chains were taken off.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Eight o&#8217;clock at night. Nadine, very ill, sleeps upon my bed, groaning
+plaintively each time that an unconscious movement
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_658" id="Page_658">[Pg 658]</a></span>
+causes her to touch
+her arms, whilst I, like all the other prisoners not invalided, remain
+at my window. In spite of the silence of several months which has
+imposed upon us, the conversation flags. We are too tired, and there are
+too many sick amongst us; there are also the dead. Where are they now?
+Removed before our chains were taken off, they will this night be buried
+with other corpses of political prisoners, secretly hid away to rest by
+the police in order to avoid any public manifestation on the part of
+friends, or remarks on the part of the local population. These thoughts,
+at intervals, awaken our anger, and then murmurs are heard. As the night
+grows deeper, and the sounds of evening are lost in the mists, covering
+the country as
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_659" id="Page_659">[Pg 659]</a></span>
+with a veil, our sick nerves become calmer, and our
+hatred gives place to an immense and tender sadness. Then we talk of our
+mothers, of the mother of Helena Q&mdash;&mdash;, and of Ivanoff&#8217;s mother, both of
+whom are probably still in ignorance of the death of their children, and
+are still waiting and hoping. And then we talk of the impression made
+upon our parents and friends when the echoes of this terrible day reach
+their ears.</p>
+
+<p>Just as the rattle of drums announces that the gates of the fortress are
+about to be closed for the night, we hear the tramp of soldiers and the
+jingle of sword-scabbards in the ground-floor corridor. It is a
+detachment of soldiers, accompanied by their officers and Captain W&mdash;&mdash;,
+who have come to fetch away two of our comrades in order to escort them
+to the military prison. Young and vigorous, these two prisoners fought
+fiercely before they were overpowered and chained, and as the Commandant
+of the fortress, impatient at the duration of the struggle, took part in
+it, he was roughly handled. Blows struck at a superior officer
+constitute a crime for which the offenders are to be tried by
+court-martial. They know it, and we know it. But this haste on the part
+of the Commandant to have them in his hands&mdash;this order to transfer them
+at night&mdash;which is given by the Director in a trembling voice&mdash;is it a
+provocation or a folly? The outer court-yard is gradually and silently
+filling with moving shadows. Rifles, of which the barrels glitter in the
+starlight, are pointed towards our windows. This mute menace of a
+massacre in the darkness finds us indifferent, and not one of us leaves
+his or her place at the window. But some are ill, and all wounded and
+tired out by the emotions and struggles of the day, and having been
+without food for over twenty-six hours; and can we revolt again? As
+regards the court-martial, none fear, and all would be willing to be
+tried by it. Its verdicts are pitiless, terrible; but they are verdicts,
+and it is an end. To-morrow, one after the other, we shall go to the
+Director&#8217;s cabinet, and there sign a declaration of our entire
+solidarity with those who are now being taken away, and that
+declaration, every word of which will be an insult thrown in the face of
+the Government, will terminate by a demand for trial by court-martial,
+not only of ourselves, but also of the Commandant of the fortress. This
+demand, as usual, will be supported by famine, by the absolute refusal
+of all prisoners to take any nourishment whatsoever, a process which
+kills the prisoners, but before which the Government, anxious to avoid
+the disastrous impression which these
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_660" id="Page_660">[Pg 660]</a></span>
+numerous deaths produce, yields,
+at least in appearance. Whilst we wait all is darkness, for the warders
+have not lit the little lamps. Through the disordered cells run strange
+murmurs, and passions are again aroused; while below, those who are
+being taken away make hasty preparations for their short journey.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 295px;">
+<img src="images/img660.jpg" width="295" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;tired out.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>I do not know them. We are about a hundred prisoners, arrested in
+different parts of the province at different times, and in spite of our
+being described as &ldquo;accomplices,&rdquo; many of us have never met or heard of
+each other.</p>
+
+<p>A few days later, before the windows are replaced, and the dull grey
+cloud again presses upon us, the desire to see and know each other
+suggests an idea. Each prisoner, standing at the window, holds a mirror
+which he or she passes outside the bars. Held at an angle these pieces
+of glass throw back floating images of pale, phantom-like faces, many of
+them unknown or unrecognisable. Those who are to-night leaving the
+prison are, for me, not even phantoms, but only voices heard for the
+first time this morning, and now so soon to be silenced, by the cord of
+Troloff, or in some cell at Schl&uuml;sselbourg or the Cross.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> And yet, as
+I listen to these voices dying away in the dark distance, I again
+experience all the despair and all the hate of the day, and my last
+&ldquo;adieu&rdquo; is choked in a sob&mdash;and when, a few moments later, the heavy
+outer door is closed, a great shudder as of death passes over the
+prison.</p>
+
+<p class="center">(<em>To be continued.</em>)</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Troloff&mdash;the Russian public executioner. Schl&uuml;sselbourg
+and the Cross&mdash;names of central prisons where the prisoners, placed in
+small cells, are always chained. Deprived of books or tools, not allowed
+to see their friends, forbidden to write or receive letters, those
+subject to the treatment, after a few months, become mad and die.</p></div>
+
+<div class="box">
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_661" id="Page_661">[Pg 661]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>A Slave of the Ring.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Alfred Berlyn.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by John G&uuml;lich.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 243px;">
+<img src="images/img661.jpg" width="243" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a troubled expression<br />
+on his face.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The Rev. Thomas Todd, curate of S. Athanasius, Great Wabbleton, sat at
+the table in his little parlour with a local newspaper in his hand and a
+troubled expression on his face. There was something incongruous in the
+appearance of the deep frown that puckered the curate&#8217;s brows; for his
+countenance, in its normal aspect, was chubby and plump and bland, and
+his little grey eyes were wont to shine with a benign and even a
+humorous twinkle. He was not remarkably young, as curates go; but he was
+quite young enough to be a subject of absorbing interest to the lady
+members of the S. Athanasius congregation, and to find himself the
+frequent recipient of those marks of feminine attention which are the
+recognised perquisites of the junior assistant clergy.</p>
+
+<p>Two or three times, the curate raised the paper from the table and
+re-read the passage that was evidently troubling him; and each time he
+did so the puckers deepened, and his expression became more and more
+careworn. It would have been difficult enough for a stranger to find any
+clue to the cause of his agitation in the portion of the <em>Wabbleton Post
+and Grubley Advertiser</em> which the clergyman held before him; and the
+wonder would certainly have been increased by the discovery that the
+passage to which the reverend gentleman&#8217;s attention was directed was
+nothing else than the following innocent little paragraph of news:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_662" id="Page_662">[Pg 662]</a></span></p>
+<div class="blockquot"><p>&ldquo;Grubley.&mdash;We are asked to state that Benotti&#8217;s Original Circus,
+one of the oldest established and most complete in the kingdom,
+will give two performances daily at Bounders Green during the whole
+of next week.&rdquo;</p></div>
+
+<p>There seemed little enough in such an announcement to bring disquiet to
+the curate&#8217;s mind. Possibly, he cherished a conscientious objection to
+circuses, and remembered that, as Grubley and Great Wabbleton were only
+three miles apart, a section of the S. Athanasius flock might be allured
+next week by the meretricious attraction at Bounders Green. Yet even
+such solicitude for the welfare of the flock of which he was the
+assistant shepherd seemed scarcely to account either for his obvious
+distress, or for the fragments of soliloquy that escaped him at every
+fresh study of the paper.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Here, of all places in the world&mdash;absolute ruin&mdash;no, not on any
+account!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>At length, throwing down the <em>Post</em>, the curate seized his hat, started
+at a rapid pace for the Vicarage, and was soon seated <em>t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te</em> with
+his superior, an amiable old gentleman with a portly presence and an
+abiding faith in his assistant&#8217;s ability to do the whole work of the
+parish unaided.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Vicar, do you think you can spare me for the next week or so? The fact
+is, I am feeling the want of a change badly, and should be glad of a few
+days to run down to my people in Devonshire.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My dear Todd, how unfortunate! I have just made arrangements to be away
+myself next week&mdash;and&mdash;and the week following. I am going up to London
+to stay with my old friend Canon Crozier. I was just coming to tell you
+so when you called. If you don&#8217;t mind waiting till I return, I&#8217;ve no
+doubt we can manage to spare you for a day or two. Sorry you&#8217;re not
+feeling well. By-the-bye, has that tiresome woman Mrs. Dunderton been
+worrying you? She came here yesterday about those candles, and
+threatened to write to the Bishop and denounce us as Popish
+conspirators. Couldn&#8217;t you go and talk to her, and see if you can bring
+her to a more reasonable frame of mind?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The talk drifted to church and parish matters, and, as soon as he
+decently could, the curate took his leave, looking very much more
+depressed and anxious than ever. As he raised the latch of the Vicarage
+gate, a voice, whose sound he knew only too well, called to him by name;
+and, turning, he beheld Miss Caroline Cope, the Vicar&#8217;s daughter,
+pursuing him skittishly down the garden path. Miss Caroline was not
+young, neither was she amiable, and her appearance was quite remarkably
+unattractive.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_663" id="Page_663">[Pg 663]</a></span>
+All this would have mattered little to the curate, but
+for the fact that she had lately shown for him a marked partiality that
+had inspired him with considerable uneasiness. At this moment, when his
+mind was troubled with other matters, her unwelcome appearance aroused
+in his breast a feeling of extreme irritation.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 360px;">
+<img src="images/img663.jpg" width="360" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;don&#8217;t run away from me.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&#8217;t run away from me, you naughty, unfeeling man,&rdquo; she began, with an
+elephantine attempt at archness. &ldquo;I was going to ask you to take me down
+to the schoolrooms, but I shall have to go alone if you fly away from me
+like this.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Todd, fervently wishing that flying were just then among his
+accomplishments, felt that now, while he was in the humour,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_664" id="Page_664">[Pg 664]</a></span> was the
+time to free himself, finally if possible, from these embarrassing
+attentions.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am sorry I cannot give myself the pleasure of accompanying you, Miss
+Cope. I have several sick persons and others to call upon in different
+parts of the parish, and my duties will fully occupy the whole of my
+morning. I&#8217;m afraid I don&#8217;t happen to be going in the direction of the
+schools, so I must say &lsquo;good morning&rsquo; here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And the curate raised his hat and passed on, fortifying himself with the
+reflection that what might in an ordinary case have been rudeness was in
+this instance the merest and most necessary self-defence.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 199px;">
+<img src="images/img664.jpg" width="199" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a viperous look<br />
+in her face.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Miss Cope stood looking after his retreating figure with a viperous look
+in her face, and with a feeling of intense rage, which she promised
+herself to translate into action at the very earliest opportunity.</p>
+
+<p>Early in the following week, the Vicar started for London, and his
+curate was left in sole charge of the parish. That there was something
+amiss with Mr. Todd was evident to all who came in contact with him,
+both before and after the Vicar&#8217;s departure. His former geniality seemed
+to have quite deserted him, and he looked worried, anxious, and ill. The
+ladies of S. Athanasius were greatly concerned at the change, and
+speculated wildly as to its cause. There was one among them, however,
+who made no comment upon the subject, and appeared, in fact, to ignore
+the curate&#8217;s existence altogether. Whatever might be the source of that
+gentleman&#8217;s troubles, he had, at any rate, freed himself from the
+unwelcome advances of Miss Caroline Cope.</p>
+
+<p>The third morning after the Vicar&#8217;s departure, his assistant was sent
+for to visit a sick parishioner who lived just outside Great Wabbleton,
+on the high road to Grubley. The summons was an imperative one; but he
+obeyed it with a curious and unwonted reluctance. As he reached the
+outskirts of the town and struck into the Grubley road, his distaste
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_665" id="Page_665">[Pg 665]</a></span>
+for his errand seemed to increase, and he looked uneasily from side to
+side with a strange, furtive glance, in singular contrast to his usual
+steady gaze and cheerful smile. He reached his destination, however,
+without adventure, and remained for some time at the invalid&#8217;s bedside.
+His return journey was destined to be more eventful. He had not
+proceeded far on his way back to Great Wabbleton, when a showily-dressed
+woman, who was passing him on the road, stopped short and regarded him
+with a prolonged and half-puzzled stare that ended in a sudden cry of
+amazed recognition. &ldquo;Well&mdash;I&#8217;m blest&mdash;it&#8217;s Tommy!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;">
+<img src="images/img665.jpg" width="196" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;it&#8217;s tommy!&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>She was a buxom, and by no means unattractive, person of about
+five-and-thirty, with an irresistibly &ldquo;horsey&rdquo; suggestion about her
+appearance and gait. As the curate&#8217;s eye met hers, he turned deadly
+pale, and his knees trembled beneath him. That which he had dreaded for
+days and nights had come to pass.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, I&#8217;m blest!&rdquo; said the lady again, &ldquo;who&#8217;d have thought of meeting
+you here after all these years&mdash;and in this make-up, too! But I should
+have known you among a thousand, all the same. Why, Tommy, you don&#8217;t
+mean to say they&#8217;ve gone and made a parson of you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The curate was desperate. His first impulse was to deny all knowledge of
+the woman who stood gazing into his face with a comical expression of
+mingled amusement and surprise. But her next words showed him the
+hopelessness of such a course.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You&#8217;re not going to say you don&#8217;t know me, Tommy, though it <em>is</em> nigh
+twenty years
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_666" id="Page_666">[Pg 666]</a></span>
+since we were in the ring together, and you&#8217;ve got into a
+black coat and a dog-collar. Fancy them making a parson of you; Lord,
+who&#8217;d have thought it! Well, I&#8217;ve had a leg-up, too, since then. I&#8217;m
+Madame Benotti now. The old lady died, and he made me missus of himself
+and the show. He often talks about you, and wouldn&#8217;t he stare, just, to
+see you in this rig-out!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>By the time, the Rev. Thomas Todd had recovered himself sufficiently to
+speak, and had decided that a bold course was the safest.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I&#8217;m really glad to see you again,&rdquo; he said, with a shuddering thought
+of the fate of Ananias; &ldquo;it reminds me so of the old times. But, you
+see, things are changed with me. You remember the old gentleman who
+adopted me, and took me away from the circus? Well, he sent me to school
+and college, and then set his heart on my becoming, as you say, a
+parson. I haven&#8217;t forgotten the old days, but&mdash;but you see, if the
+people round here knew about my having been&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Lor&#8217; bless you, Tommy,&rdquo; broke in the good-natured <em>&eacute;questrienne</em>, &ldquo;you
+don&#8217;t think I&#8217;d be so mean as to go and queer an old pal&#8217;s pitch; you&#8217;ve
+nothing to fear from me; don&#8217;t be afraid, there&#8217;s nobody coming&rdquo;&mdash;for
+the curate was looking distractedly round. &ldquo;Well, I&#8217;m mighty glad to
+have seen you again, even in this get-up, but I won&#8217;t stop and talk to
+you any longer, or one of your flock might come round the corner, and
+then&mdash;O my! wouldn&#8217;t there be a rumpus? Ha, ha, ha!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She laughed loudly, and the clergyman looked round again in an agony.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Now, Tommy, good-bye to you, and good luck. But look here, before you
+go, just for the sake of the old times, when you were &lsquo;little Sandy,&rsquo;
+and I used to do the bare-backed business, you&#8217;ll give us a kiss, won&#8217;t
+you, old man?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And before the unhappy curate could prevent her, Madame Benotti had
+flung her muscular arms round his neck, and imprinted two sounding
+kisses on his cheeks.</p>
+
+<p>At that fatal moment, a female figure came round the bend of the road,
+and, to his indescribable horror, the curate recognised the dread form
+of the Vicar&#8217;s daughter. She had seen all&mdash;of that there could be no
+doubt, but she came on, passed them, and continued on her way to Grubley
+without the smallest sign of recognition.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My goodness, Tommy, I hope that old cat wasn&#8217;t one of your
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_667" id="Page_667">[Pg 667]</a></span> flock,&rdquo;
+remarked Madame Benotti, with real concern, as soon as she had passed.
+&ldquo;You look as scared as if you had seen a ghost; I hope I haven&#8217;t&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But the curate waited to hear no more. With a hurried &ldquo;Good-bye&rdquo; he tore
+himself away, and made his way back to his apartments in a state
+bordering on desperation.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img667.jpg" width="400" height="282" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;flung her muscular arms round his neck.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Locking himself in, he paced the room for some time, groaning aloud in a
+perfect frenzy of misery and apprehension. Then he flung himself into
+his chair, buried his face in his hands, and tried to think what was
+best to be done. After painful and intense thought, he decided that
+there was nothing for it but to tell Miss Cope the whole story, and
+appeal to her honour to keep it to herself. But how if she chose to
+revenge herself upon him by refusing to believe the story, or by
+declining to keep it secret? He could not conceal from himself that
+either of these results was more than possible. In that case, there
+remained only one resource; and it was of so terrible a nature that the
+curate positively shuddered at its contemplation. But it might even come
+to that; and better even <em>that</em>, he told himself, than the exposure, the
+ridicule, and the professional ruin that must otherwise befall him.</p>
+
+<p>Hour after hour passed, and he was still nerving himself for the coming
+interview, when a tap came at the door, and a note, left by
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_668" id="Page_668">[Pg 668]</a></span> hand, was
+brought in to him. He glanced at the address, and tore open the envelope
+with trembling hand. It contained these few words, without any sort of
+preliminary:&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>&ldquo;I think it right to give you warning that I shall take the
+earliest opportunity of making known your disgraceful conduct
+witnessed by me in the public streets this morning.<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 22em;" class="smcap">&ldquo;Caroline Cope.&rdquo;</span></p></div>
+
+<p>The Rev. Thomas Todd placed the letter in his pocket with an air of
+desperate resolve, and started forth for the Vicarage without another
+moment&#8217;s delay. It was now or never&mdash;if he hesitated, even for an hour,
+he might be irretrievably lost.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 193px;">
+<img src="images/img668.jpg" width="193" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;miss cope was engaged.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The first answer brought to him by the servant who opened the Vicarage
+door was not encouraging. &ldquo;Miss Cope was engaged, and could not see Mr.
+Todd.&rdquo; But the curate dared not allow himself to be put off so easily.
+&ldquo;Tell Miss Cope I <em>must</em> see her on business of the most serious
+importance,&rdquo; he said; and the message was duly carried to the Vicar&#8217;s
+daughter. That lady, after a moment&#8217;s hesitation, felt herself unable
+any longer to resist enjoying a foretaste of her coming triumph, and
+ordered Mr. Todd to be admitted.</p>
+
+<p>The interview that followed confirmed the curate&#8217;s worst fears. He told
+Miss Cope the whole story, and she flatly refused to believe a word of
+it. He begged her to go herself to the circus proprietor and his wife
+for proof of its truth, and she simply laughed in his face. He appealed
+to her honour to keep the story secret, and she coldly reminded him of
+the duty that devolved upon her, in her father&#8217;s absence, of protecting
+the morals of his congregation.</p>
+
+<p>Then at last, beaten and baffled at all points, the unhappy curate
+played his final card. He offered the Vicar&#8217;s daughter the best possible
+evidence of his sincerity by asking her to become his wife. The effect
+was magical. It was the first chance of a husband that had ever come to
+Caroline in her thirty-nine years of life, and she had an inward
+conviction that it would be the last. The secret she had just learnt was
+known to no one in the parish
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_669" id="Page_669">[Pg 669]</a></span>
+but herself, and so, after a brief
+pretence of further parley to save appearances, she jumped at the offer,
+and the curate left the Vicarage an engaged man. His last desperate
+throw had succeeded. He had saved his position and his reputation; but
+at what a cost he dared not even think.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 350px;">
+<img src="images/img669.jpg" width="350" height="298" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;something very seriously wrong.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Within the next day or two, it became evident to all whom he met that
+there was something very seriously wrong with the Rev. Thomas Todd. His
+manner became first morose and abstracted, and then wild and eccentric.
+He was seen very little in the town, and when he did appear, his haggard
+face, his strange, absent air, and the unmistakable evidences of the
+profound depression that possessed him, were the objects of general
+remark. Some of the more charitable expressed a confident opinion that
+the curate had committed a crime; others decided, with more penetration,
+that he was going mad. From Miss Cope he kept carefully aloof. It had
+been arranged at that fatal interview that their engagement should be
+kept secret until the return of the Vicar, whose sanction must be
+obtained before the affair could be made public. Miss Cope was aware
+that the curate had two sermons to prepare in addition to his parish
+duties&mdash;for he would have to preach twice on Sunday owing to her
+father&#8217;s absence; so she did not allow his non-appearance at the
+Vicarage on Friday or Saturday to greatly surprise her.</p>
+
+<p>If she could have seen the way in which the preparation of those sermons
+was proceeding, she might have found more cause for anxiety. Shut up in
+his room with some sheets of blank paper before him, the curate sat for
+hours together, staring vacantly at the wall before him, and
+occasionally giving vent to a loud, strange laugh. The evening of
+Saturday passed into night, and
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_670" id="Page_670">[Pg 670]</a></span>
+still he sat on, looking before him
+into the darkness with the same vacant stare, and uttering from time to
+time the same wild, hoarse chuckle.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 320px;">
+<img src="images/img670.jpg" width="320" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;the rev. thomas todd was<br />
+standing on his head.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The light of Sunday morning, streaming into the room, fell upon a weird,
+dishevelled figure, that still stared fixedly at the wall, and every now
+and then muttered strange and wholly unclerical words and phrases. Still
+the hours wore on, until the sun rose high in the heavens, and the bells
+began to ring for church. Then came a knock at the curate&#8217;s door. His
+landlady, surprised by his neglect of the breakfast hour, had been
+positively alarmed when he showed no sign of heeding the approach of
+church time. The knock was repeated; and then the clergyman sprang to
+his feet and unlocked the door.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Wait a moment,&rdquo; he cried, with a wild laugh. &ldquo;<em>Now</em> come in!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The landlady put her head in at the door, and uttered a shriek of horror
+and amazement. The Rev. Thomas Todd was standing on his head in the
+middle of the hearthrug.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;God bless us and save us&mdash;the poor gentleman&#8217;s gone clean out of his
+wits!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The curate&#8217;s only reply was a shrill whoop, followed by an agile leap
+into an upright position, and a wild grab at the terrified lady, whose
+thirteen stone of solid matronhood he whirled round his head and tossed
+across the room as if it had been a
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_671" id="Page_671">[Pg 671]</a></span>
+feather-weight. Then, hatless and
+unkempt, he tore down stairs into the street, and started at a furious
+pace in the direction of S. Athanasius.</p>
+
+<p>It was three minutes to eleven, and the last stroke of the clanky
+church-bell had just died away in a series of unmusical vibrations. The
+townspeople, in all the added importance of Sunday clothes, gathered in
+an ever-thickening knot about the gates, greeting one another before
+they passed on into the church. At that moment, there floated towards
+them on the breeze a sudden, sharp shout that rooted them to the spot in
+positive consternation.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 445px;">
+<img src="images/img671.jpg" width="445" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;scattered them right and left.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Houp-la! Houp-la! Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!&rdquo; And in another instant the
+unfortunate curate, tearing down the road, had flung himself among them
+and scattered them right and left by a series of vigorous and
+splendidly-executed somersaults. With a well-directed leap, and a wild
+cry of &ldquo;Here we are again!&rdquo; he vaulted lightly over the church gate, and
+began to run up the path towards the door, until, at last, the horrified
+onlookers awoke to the realities of the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_672" id="Page_672">[Pg 672]</a></span>
+situation and half-a-dozen
+sturdy townsmen rushed upon and seized the unhappy man. Then a woman&#8217;s
+piercing scream was heard, and the Vicar&#8217;s daughter, who had just
+arrived on the scene, fell fainting to the ground.</p>
+
+<p>There was no service at S. Athanasius that morning, and the Rev. Thomas
+Todd was later on conveyed, still shouting fragments of circus dialogue,
+to the County Lunatic Asylum. The curate&#8217;s mind had temporarily given
+way beneath the strain of the position in which he had found himself
+placed, and of the horrible future that lay before him, and his insanity
+had taken the form of an imaginary return to the scenes of his early
+life. When, some two years later, he was discharged cured, he attached
+himself to a mission about to start for the South African Coast, and
+left England without re-visiting Great Wabbleton.</p>
+
+<p>Long afterwards, Miss Caroline Cope, in a burst of confidence, one day
+related to her special friend, Miss Lavinia Murby, the doctor&#8217;s
+daughter, how the Rev. Thomas Todd had proposed to her a few days before
+his melancholy seizure.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, my dear, you see he couldn&#8217;t have been right, even then,&rdquo; was that
+lady&#8217;s sympathetic comment.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;">
+<img src="images/img672.jpg" width="350" height="285" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;he couldn&#8217;t have been right, even then.&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_673" id="Page_673">[Pg 673]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>People I Have Never Met.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Scott Rankin.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p class="center"><strong>ZANGWILL.</strong></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 407px;">
+<img src="images/img673.jpg" width="407" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>&ldquo;I will show this Anglo-Jewish community that I am a man to be
+reckoned with. I will crush it&mdash;not it me. Then some day it will
+find out its mistake; and it will seize the hem of my coat, and
+beseech me to be its Rabbi. Then, and only then, shall we have true
+Judaism in London.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The folk who compose our picture are children of the Ghetto. If
+they are not the children, they are at least the grandchildren of
+the Ghetto.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 22em;">&mdash;&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Children of the Ghetto</span>.&rdquo;</p></div>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_674" id="Page_674">[Pg 674]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img674.jpg" width="500" height="372" alt="The Idlers Club" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="sidenote">Joseph Hatton on the art of tipping.</div>
+
+<p>Almost everything has been reduced to an art. You can learn journalism
+outside a newspaper, playwriting by theory, French without a master. How
+to succeed in literature and how not; both ways have been laid down for
+the student. There is scarcely an art or a habit you cannot learn in
+books. Etiquette, how to make up, stock-jobbing, acting, gardening, and
+a host of intellectual pursuits, have their rules and regulations; but
+the mysterious and delicate art of tipping as yet remains unexploited in
+the social ethics of this much-taught generation. It is high time that
+the proper method of giving tips should be defined, its laws codified,
+its many possibilities of error guarded against, and some system set
+forth whereby the tipper may give the greatest satisfaction to the
+tipped at the most moderate, if not the least, outlay in current coin of
+the realm. The art could be illustrated with many examples from the
+earliest times. Pelagia&#8217;s tip to Hypatia&#8217;s father was the dancer&#8217;s
+cestus, which was jewelled with precious stones enough to stock the shop
+of a Bond Street jeweller of our own time. According to the truthful
+interpretation of the old English days which we find in the drama, the
+most popular method of tipping was to present your gold in a long,
+knitted purse, which you threw at the tippee&#8217;s feet or slapped into the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_675" id="Page_675">[Pg 675]</a></span>
+palm of his hand; but this system seems to have lapsed; and no fresh
+regulation has been established in the unwritten laws of the <em>douceur</em>,
+which goes back even before the days when extravagant and unwilling tips
+were often enforced with pincers, racks, and other imperative
+inventions. Monte Cristo gave wonderful tips, and Monte Carlo is lavish
+to this day. The genius that wrecked Panama has an open hand. Promoters
+of London companies know how to be liberal. Not much art is required, I
+believe, to distribute largess of this kind. Nor are certain classes of
+American aldermen difficult to deal with. The art that should be made
+most clear is how to pay your host&#8217;s servants for your host&#8217;s
+hospitality; how to show your gratitude to a newspaper man without
+hurting his <em>amour propre</em>; how to meet the requirements of the
+middleman of life and labour without &ldquo;giving yourself away&rdquo;; how to tip
+the parson when you are married; and, in this connection, one may remark
+the consolation of dying; the tippee does not trouble you at your own
+funeral.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">With reference to waiters, deans, and other public servants.</div>
+
+<p>The waiter at public dinners is a very considerate person. He assists
+you in every possible way he can. With every dish he practically jogs
+your memory; and, as an accompaniment to the dessert, he informs you
+that he &ldquo;must now leave&rdquo;; is there &ldquo;anything else he can do for you?&rdquo; If
+you are of a reflective nature you may, in a moment of abstraction, rise
+from your seat and shake hands with him; but if, as a right-minded
+citizen, you have constantly in view the universal claim upon your
+purse, you will thank your friendly and condescending attendant, and pay
+him for the services he has rendered to his employer. You may in your
+thoughtlessness and abstraction have jeopardised the success of the
+waiter&#8217;s arrangements for carrying off a certain bottle of wine which he
+had planted for convenient removal. How much you should give him is
+considered to depend upon the quality of the wine which you have been
+fully charged for with your ticket; and this question of cuisine and
+wine still further complicates the difficult adjustment of the rightful
+claims of the attendant and what is due to your own honour, not to
+mention your reputation as a <em>gourmet</em>. An irreverent American, after a
+first experience, I conclude, of English travel, said that you are safe
+in tipping any Britisher below the dignity of a bishop; but a
+fellow-countryman, guided by this opinion, felt very unhappy
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_676" id="Page_676">[Pg 676]</a></span> when,
+after being shown over a famous cathedral by the dean, he slipped
+half-a-sovereign into his very reverend guide&#8217;s hand, and received, in
+return, an intimation that the poor&#8217;s box was in the porch. I remember
+on one occasion, when I was investigating a question that called for
+special courtesy on the part of a public official, I was disturbed
+during my work with the question whether I might tip him, and, if so, to
+what extent. The subject almost &ldquo;got on my nerves&rdquo; before the inquiry,
+which lasted an hour or two, came to an end; at last I determined that
+it was a case for a tip. I gave him ten shillings. For a moment I
+thought I had offended him, and, remembering the dean and the poor box,
+was about to say, &ldquo;Give it to a charity,&rdquo; when the official plaintively
+inquired if I couldn&#8217;t &ldquo;make it a sovereign?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">He discourses concerning the ethics of tipping.</div>
+
+<p>Give up the idea that tipping will succumb to any agitation. So long as
+commodities have to be paid for in cash, and not in fine words and sweet
+smiles, tipping will exist. The moralist may rave against it, but ask
+him in what way his gratitude manifests itself when a railway porter
+politely relieves him of half-a-dozen bags, and deposits them in a snug
+corner, whilst he has barely time to take his ticket at the
+booking-office. It is surely impossible to abuse the same porter if, out
+of a feeling of recognition for favours previously received, he leaves
+the belated passenger to manage the best way he can under a cartload of
+shawls, rugs, hat and bonnet-boxes, to attend again to your comforts.
+You hardly sympathise with your fellow-traveller, although he may be
+using very strong language against the identical porter, in whose
+favour, for the second time, you part with a few coppers. It is the
+desire to secure the comforts and commodities provided by the activity
+of others that will perpetuate tipping. After all, this is not limited
+to menials. It is given, and unscrupulously accepted by all grades of
+society, and by all conditions of men. I have known a company director
+give to a titled nobody a berth promised to someone else, because he had
+been familiarly addressed by His Lordship in a public place, and had
+been &ldquo;honoured&rdquo; by a few minutes&#8217; conversation. That was not, of course,
+a tip in the ordinary sense of the word, but it amounted, however, to
+the same thing. It secured a good berth to his &ldquo;Excellency.&rdquo; And what
+say you of the whiskies and waters, brandies and sodas, the champagne,
+oysters, luncheons, and
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_677" id="Page_677">[Pg 677]</a></span>
+dinners to which our good city men generously
+ask a would-be customer? That, I suppose, is called &ldquo;paving the way to a
+good business.&rdquo; I have not unfrequently heard people regret that they
+were unable to refuse a favour in return for a civility. That civility
+was most likely a dinner, or even something less. Kisses distributed by
+ladies in hotly-contested constituencies, the promise of a Government
+post, an invitation to a party, a mere familiar recognition, a penny,
+are all varieties which make the thing so general.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">He believes the custom will die out with human nature.</div>
+
+<p>Wedding presents are not given without an <em>arri&egrave;re pens&eacute;e</em>, and at
+Christmas our object is mostly to please the parents. Our indignation,
+however, is not roused by this, because we are in the habit, I suppose,
+of distributing and receiving such acknowledgments ourselves. We want to
+suppress small tips; in fact, such as are most wanted by the recipient,
+whose only source of revenue they constitute in many cases. We fail to
+realise that, were servants well paid, &ldquo;tipping&rdquo; would not take the form
+of an imposition. Employers, especially at hotels and restaurants,
+either give ridiculously low wages, or suppress these altogether, and in
+many establishments hire the tables to the waiters at so much a day or
+week for the privilege of serving. At present this custom has become so
+deeply rooted that it has given growth to a most perfect secret code of
+signs and marks by which each class of servants is informed how much he
+has to expect from the liberality of the inexperienced and unwary
+stranger. This applies especially to hotel servants, and has become the
+crying abuse against which we try to react. This code is not local, but
+has acquired an internationality which professors of Volapuk would be
+proud to claim for their language. I remember once an irascible old
+gentleman complaining bitterly against the incivility of the hotel
+servants, who never helped him with his traps. He found no exception to
+the rule except when his wanderings took him to some remote part of
+Scotland, where, he assured me, the &ldquo;<em>braying of the socialist pedants
+had not yet been heard</em>.&rdquo; I suspected that my friend was not
+over-generous, and timidly sounded him on the point. His reply confirmed
+my suspicion. I thereupon showed him the cause of the servants&#8217;
+inattention, amounting sometimes even to rudeness&mdash;a <em>little chalk mark
+on each bag</em>. I advised him to carefully wipe that off after leaving the
+hotels. The effect was most
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_678" id="Page_678">[Pg 678]</a></span>
+satisfactory&mdash;my friend has had no reason
+to complain since, at least when he got into a hotel. The position of
+hotel labels also serves to indicate if anything can be expected from
+the traveller. Of course, this is not countenanced by &ldquo;mine host,&rdquo; who
+dismisses the user of such messages, but as that man is generally a
+wide-awake and useful rogue, there is little doubt but that he is
+reinstated in his functions shortly after the traveller is gone. Beggars
+and tramps have a similar system of conveying to their <em>confr&egrave;res</em>
+information as to the likely reception they may expect from the
+occupants of the different residences on the road. They never fail to
+warn them against dogs and other disagreeable surprise or dangers,
+should they by some unaccountable absent-mindedness forget that there is
+such a thing as the eighth commandment. In conclusion, <em>pourboire</em>,
+<em>buona mancia</em>, <em>backshish</em>, tipping or bribery, was born with man, and
+will only die out with him.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Giuseppe of the Cafe Doney, at Florence: his experience.</div>
+
+<p>Ah! Milor, what do I think of &ldquo;teeping?&rdquo; What would become of me without
+it? In some forty or fifty years I shall be a rich man, and perhaps keep
+a <em>caf&eacute;</em> myself, thanks to the benevolence and generosity of the
+American and English milors. At first I was a cabman, but in Italy no
+one gives the cabman a <em>pourboire</em>; so my friends said, &ldquo;Ah! Giuseppe,
+you must make money somehow. Become a waiter, and you will grow rich.&rdquo;
+So they took me to our padrone, and he made me a waiter, and I am
+growing rich on &ldquo;teeps.&rdquo; But it is not my own compatriots, Milor, who
+make me rich. When I attend one of them, he will only give me ten
+centimes (a penny), and if I attend two of them they will give me
+fifteen centimes between them. But the English and Americans will
+sometimes give me fifty or a hundred centimes at a time. But, alas! that
+happens very seldom. When I am in luck I save two hundred centimes a day
+(1s. 8d.), and shall, in a great many years, have a <em>caf&eacute;</em> of my own.
+Perhaps Milor will assist? <em>Grazie.</em></p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">The head waiter at the<br />
+&mdash;&mdash;&nbsp;&nbsp;
+sets forth his views.</div>
+
+<p>Instead of complaining against tipping, the public should oblige the
+employers to pay their servants more liberally. In modern
+restaurants&mdash;and I suppose the custom has come from Paris&mdash;waiters have
+to pay the employers sums varying from one to four shillings a day
+according to the number and position of tables they serve. Their work
+averages from fourteen to sixteen hours
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_679" id="Page_679">[Pg 679]</a></span>
+a day. It begins at eight, and
+sometimes long after midnight they are still at work. Out of their
+earnings they have to pay all breakages and washing, and, for the thirty
+to thirty-five shillings they earn a week, they have to put up, from a
+class of customers, with patience and a perpetual smile, more abuse than
+one in any other ten men would stand. It not unfrequently happens that a
+waiter would do without it rather than accept a tip which assumes the
+form of an insult. We look upon it as a remuneration due to us, and,
+after trying to satisfy the client, we do not see why he should think it
+an unbearable nuisance, and treat the recipient with contempt. In many
+cases, after exacting the most constant attention, and heaping unmerited
+abuse on the irresponsible waiter, the client who has most likely spent
+on himself enough to keep a family a whole week, grudges the sixpence he
+has to give the attendant, and makes him feel it by throwing the coppers
+down, accompanying the action by an insulting remark. Like all men whose
+business it is to minister to the comfort of others, many among us are
+very shrewd observers, and can tell at a glance what treatment we may
+expect from certain customers, and we behave accordingly. We are seldom
+mistaken in our judgment. Experience has taught us that the most
+generous, and at the same time most gentlemanly, &ldquo;tippers&rdquo; are the
+Israelitish Anglo-German financiers. There is a difference between them
+and the young spendthrift who inconsiderately throws away his money. No,
+sir, the Anglo-German banker, orders, goes carefully through the
+account, and then gives his money liberally. After him comes the
+Russian. The Englishman, who is next best, is closely followed by the
+French and German.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">His opinion of Americans as tippers.</div>
+
+<p>The American is nowhere. It is a mistaken idea to believe that he is
+generous. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, but the majority
+of them come out here just to see the sights, and talk about them on
+their return. A certain sum is laid aside for the purpose, and I am sure
+they contrive to make economies upon it. The Americans are, besides,
+disagreeable to serve. They never lose the opportunity of making
+disparaging comparisons between their country and the old world. Our
+restaurants are country inns compared to theirs, their waiters are
+smarter, their services of better class, our cooking is miles behind
+theirs, and as to
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_680" id="Page_680">[Pg 680]</a></span>
+concoction of drinks, of course we have to take a
+back seat. We are also very slow. A steak, in Chicago, for instance, is
+cooked in about the fifteenth of the time required here. When it comes
+to paying, the American finds that everything is also dearer over here;
+gives very little or nothing to <em>that inattentive waiter</em>, threatens to
+lodge a complaint against him, and goes away satisfied that everyone is
+impressed by the grandeur of the Great Republic as represented by
+himself, one of its worthy citizens.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Of Scotchmen and millionaires.</div>
+
+<p>In England, the Scotch are the least liberal. In Scotland, waiters and
+hotel servants are paid. An attempt to introduce in Edinburgh the
+continental system failed most ignominiously in 1886, and the
+enterprising <em>restaurateur</em> had to revert to the local system, and
+replace all the former waiters, who ran back to London rather than be
+reduced to the dire necessity of going into the workhouse. Young men, as
+a rule, are more generous than elderly people, and the fair sex is, in
+general, very stingy. A gentleman accompanied by a lady, if she is only
+an acquaintance, is sure to tip generously, <em>pour la galerie</em>, although
+he may look as if he wanted to accompany every penny by a kick. But when
+the same person dines with his wife or sister, the remuneration is as
+small as decency can permit. When a waiter spots such a relation between
+a party of diners, he generally tries to escape the obligation of
+offering them a table. At the large restaurants we gauge the diners&#8217;
+liberality very frequently at one glance, and in any case form an
+accurate opinion of him by the way he orders his <em>menu</em>. We know whether
+we have to do with a gentleman or a cad, and whether his subsequent
+parsimoniousness is caused by cussedness or simply ignorance of the
+customs of such establishments, and we treat him in consequence. It is
+pitiful sometimes to see all the ruses employed by well-meaning people,
+unwilling to be thought unaccustomed to the life of a large restaurant,
+and my advice to such persons would be to remain natural rather than
+become ridiculous. The manner in which the tip is given varies according
+to the nationality and character of the donor. The most ostentatious
+among these is the South American millionaire, whose gift varies
+according to the number of people present. As a rule, the wealthy man is
+not generous.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_681" id="Page_681">[Pg 681]</a></span></p>
+<div class="sidenote">A commissionnaire can tell people&#8217;s dispositions at sight.</div>
+
+<p>I can say at first sight whether a person is of a kindly disposition,
+for I would rather assist such a person and get nothing than one who
+makes me feel the weight of his liberality. The amount a man may make
+depends a great deal on his wits. To forestall a gentleman&#8217;s wishes,
+give him the necessary information, and to the point; to assist him when
+assistance is most needed, and not before, is what is most appreciated.
+When in a theatre I see a couple occupying a bad seat, when better ones
+are vacant, I make the suggestion, and would certainly be astonished if
+the gentleman did not acknowledge the hint. When the working classes do
+not syndicate they have to accept wages so ridiculously low that they
+are obliged to find some means of increasing their earnings. But will it
+ever be possible to suppress the &ldquo;evil&rdquo;? Allow me to doubt it. The thing
+is, therefore, to prevent tipping taking the form of an imposition. This
+can only be done by paying good wages.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Barr gives the straight tip.</div>
+
+<p>A native of Cuba once said to me, with an air of proud superiority, &ldquo;We
+have the yellow fever <em>always</em> in Havana.&rdquo; I was unable to make any such
+boastful claim for North America, and so the Cuban rightly thought he
+had the advantage of me. They think nothing of the yellow fever in
+Havana, but when the malady is imported into Florida the people of that
+peninsula become panic-stricken. The yellow fever in the Southern States
+strikes terror. It seems to be worse in its effects when it enters the
+States than it is where they always have it. So it is with tipping. It
+is always present in Europe in a mild form, but periodically tipping
+swoops down upon the United States, and its effects are dreadful to
+contemplate. If tipping ever becomes epidemic in America, the
+unfortunate citizens will have to leave, and seek a cheaper country, for
+the haughty waiter in an American hotel scorns the humbler coins of the
+realm, and accepts nothing less than half a dollar. Happily, tipping
+has, up to date, been more or less of an exotic in America, but I have
+grave fears that the Chicago Exhibition, attracting as it does so many
+incurable tippers from Europe, will cause the disease to take firm root
+in the States, and entail years of suffering hereafter.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Summing up.</div>
+
+<p>I do not agree with the member of the club who holds in one paragraph
+that Scotsmen are mean in the giving of tips. Speaking as a Scotsman
+myself, I admit that we like to go the whole distance from Liverpool Street
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_682" id="Page_682">[Pg 682]</a></span>
+to Charing Cross for our penny. We desire to get the worth of
+our bawbee. And it is a cold day when we don&#8217;t. But it must be
+remembered that a Scotsman is conscientious, and he knows that tipping
+is an indefensible vice, so he discourages it as much as possible, being
+compelled by custom to fall in with it. Then, again, the man who claims
+that Americans are not liberal doesn&#8217;t know what he is talking about.
+The trouble with the American is that he does not know the exact amount
+to give, and that bothers him, and causes him to curse the custom in
+choice and varied language. Speaking now as an American, I will give a
+tip right here. If Conan Doyle, or George Meredith, or some author in
+whom Americans have confidence, would get out a book entitled, say, &ldquo;The
+Right Tip, or Tuppence on the Shilling,&rdquo; giving exactly the correct sum
+to pay on all occasions, Americans would buy up the whole edition and
+bless the author. I think Americans are altogether too lavish with their
+tips, and thus make it difficult for us poorer people, whom nobody tips,
+to get along. A friend of mine, on leaving one of the big London hotels,
+changed several five pound notes into half-crowns, and distributed these
+coins right and left all the way from his rooms to the carriage, giving
+one or more to every person who looked as if he would accept. He met no
+refusals, and departed amidst much <em>&eacute;clat</em>. He thought he had done the
+square thing, as he expressed it, but I looked on the action as
+corrupting and indefensible. He deserves to have his name blazoned here
+as a warning, but I shall not mention it, merely contenting myself by
+saying that he was formerly a United States senator, was at that time
+Minister to Spain, and is at the present moment President of the World&#8217;s
+Fair.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>The portrait of Mrs. Henniker, which appeared in <em>The Idler</em> for
+May&mdash;&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Lions in their Dens</span>&rdquo;: V. <span class="smcap">The Lord Lieutenant at Dublin
+Castle</span>&mdash;was from a photograph taken by Messrs. <span class="smcap">Werner and Son, of
+Dublin.</span></p></div>
+
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July
+1893, by Various
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+</pre>
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+</body>
+</html>
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+Project Gutenberg's The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July 1893, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July 1893
+       An Illustrated Monthly
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: May 7, 2008 [EBook #25372]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLER MAGAZINE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines,
+Jonathan Ingram, Anne Storer and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcribers Notes: Title and Table of Contents added.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+ THE IDLER MAGAZINE.
+ AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY.
+
+ July 1893.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+ CONTENTS.
+
+
+ THE WOMAN OF THE SAETER.
+     BY JEROME K. JEROME.
+
+ ALPHONSE DAUDET AT HOME.
+     BY MARIE ADELAIDE BELLOC.
+
+ THE DISMAL THRONG.
+     BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
+
+ IN THE HANDS OF JEFFERSON.
+     BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
+
+ MY FIRST BOOK.
+     BY I. ZANGWILL.
+
+ BY THE LIGHT OF THE LAMP.
+     BY HILDA NEWMAN.
+
+ MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST.
+     III.--ONE DAY.
+     BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.
+
+ A SLAVE OF THE RING.
+     BY ALFRED BERLYN.
+
+ PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET.
+     BY SCOTT RANKIN.
+
+ THE IDLER'S CLUB
+     "TIPPING."
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE VENGEANCE OF HUND.]
+
+_The Woman of the Saeter._
+
+BY JEROME K. JEROME.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. S. BOYD.
+
+          -----
+
+Wild-Reindeer stalking is hardly so exciting a sport as the evening's
+verandah talk in Norroway hotels would lead the trustful traveller to
+suppose. Under the charge of your guide, a very young man with the
+dreamy, wistful eyes of those who live in valleys, you leave the
+farmstead early in the forenoon, arriving towards twilight at the
+desolate hut which, for so long as you remain upon the uplands, will be
+your somewhat cheerless headquarters.
+
+Next morning, in the chill, mist-laden dawn you rise; and, after a
+breakfast of coffee and dried fish, shoulder your Remington, and step
+forth silently into the raw, damp air; the guide locking the door behind
+you, the key grating harshly in the rusty lock.
+
+For hour after hour you toil over the steep, stony ground, or wind
+through the pines, speaking in whispers, lest your voice reach the quick
+ears of your prey, that keeps its head ever pressed against the wind.
+Here and there, in the hollows of the hills, lie wide fields of snow,
+over which you pick your steps thoughtfully, listening to the smothered
+thunder of the torrent, tunnelling its way beneath your feet, and
+wondering whether the frozen arch above it be at all points as firm as
+is desirable. Now and again, as in single file you walk cautiously along
+some jagged ridge, you catch glimpses of the green world, three thousand
+feet below you; though you gaze not long upon the view, for your
+attention is chiefly directed to watching the footprints of the guide,
+lest by deviating to the right or left you find yourself at one stride
+back in the valley--or, to be more correct, are found there.
+
+These things you do, and as exercise they are healthful and
+invigorating. But a reindeer you never see, and unless, overcoming the
+prejudices of your British-bred conscience, you care to take an
+occasional pop at a fox, you had better have left your rifle at the hut,
+and, instead, have brought a stick, which would have been helpful.
+Notwithstanding which the guide continues sanguine, and in broken
+English, helped out by stirring gesture, tells of the terrible slaughter
+generally done by sportsmen under his superintendence, and of the vast
+herds that generally infest these fjelds; and when you grow sceptical
+upon the subject of Reins he whispers alluringly of Bears.
+
+Once in a way you will come across a track, and will follow it
+breathlessly for hours, and it will lead to a sheer precipice. Whether
+the explanation is suicide, or a reprehensible tendency on the part of
+the animal towards practical joking, you are left to decide for
+yourself. Then, with many rough miles between you and your rest, you
+abandon the chase.
+
+But I speak from personal experience merely.
+
+All day long we had tramped through the pitiless rain, stopping only for
+an hour at noon to eat some dried venison, and smoke a pipe beneath the
+shelter of an overhanging cliff. Soon afterwards Michael knocked over a
+ryper (a bird that will hardly take the trouble to hop out of your way)
+with his gun-barrel, which incident cheered us a little, and, later on,
+our flagging spirits were still further revived by the discovery of
+apparently very recent deer-tracks. These we followed, forgetful, in our
+eagerness, of the lengthening distance back to the hut, of the fading
+daylight, of the gathering mist. The track led us higher and higher,
+further and further into the mountains, until on the shores of a
+desolate rock-bound vand it abruptly ended, and we stood staring at one
+another, and the snow began to fall.
+
+Unless in the next half-hour we could chance upon a saeter, this meant
+passing the night upon the mountain. Michael and I looked at the guide,
+but though, with characteristic Norwegian sturdiness, he put a bold face
+upon it, we could see that in that deepening darkness he knew no more
+than we did. Wasting no time on words, we made straight for the nearest
+point of descent, knowing that any human habitation must be far below
+us.
+
+Down we scrambled, heedless of torn clothes and bleeding hands, the
+darkness pressing closer round us. Then suddenly it became black--black
+as pitch--and we could only hear each other. Another step might mean
+death. We stretched out our hands, and felt each other. Why we spoke in
+whispers, I do not know, but we seemed afraid of our own voices. We
+agreed there was nothing for it but to stop where we were till morning,
+clinging to the short grass; so we lay there side by side, for what may
+have been five minutes or may have been an hour. Then, attempting to
+turn, I lost my grip and rolled. I made convulsive efforts to clutch the
+ground, but the incline was too steep. How far I fell I could not say,
+but at last something stopped me. I felt it cautiously with my foot; it
+did not yield, so I twisted myself round and touched it with my hand. It
+seemed planted firmly in the earth. I passed my arm along to the right,
+then to the left. Then I shouted with joy. It was a fence.
+
+[Illustration: "CLINGING TO THE SHORT GRASS."]
+
+Rising and groping about me, I found an opening, and passed through, and
+crept forward with palms outstretched until I touched the logs of a hut;
+then, feeling my way round, discovered the door, and knocked. There came
+no response, so I knocked louder; then pushed, and the heavy woodwork
+yielded, groaning. But the darkness within was even darker than the
+darkness without. The others had contrived to crawl down and join me.
+Michael struck a wax vesta and held it up, and slowly the room came out
+of the darkness and stood round us.
+
+Then something rather startling happened. Giving one swift glance about
+him, our guide uttered a cry, and rushed out into the night, and
+disappeared. We followed to the door, and called after him, but only a
+voice came to us out of the blackness, and the only words that we could
+catch, shrieked back in terror, were: "The woman of the saeter--the
+woman of the saeter."
+
+"Some foolish superstition about the place, I suppose," said Michael.
+"In these mountain solitudes men breed ghosts for company. Let us make a
+fire. Perhaps, when he sees the light, his desire for food and shelter
+may get the better of his fears."
+
+We felt about in the small enclosure round the house, and gathered
+juniper and birch-twigs, and kindled a fire upon the open stove built in
+the corner of the room. Fortunately, we had some dried reindeer and
+bread in our bag, and on that and the ryper, and the contents of our
+flasks, we supped. Afterwards, to while away the time, we made an
+inspection of the strange eyrie we had lighted on.
+
+It was an old log-built saeter. Some of these mountain farmsteads are as
+old as the stone ruins of other countries. Carvings of strange beasts
+and demons were upon its blackened rafters, and on the lintel, in runic
+letters, ran this legend: "Hund builded me in the days of Haarfager."
+The house consisted of two large apartments. Originally, no doubt, these
+had been separate dwellings standing beside one another, but they were
+now connected by a long, low gallery. Most of the scanty furniture was
+almost as ancient as the walls themselves, but many articles of a
+comparatively recent date had been added. All was now, however, rotting
+and falling into decay.
+
+[Illustration: "BY THE DULL GLOW OF THE BURNING JUNIPER TWIGS."]
+
+The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly by its last occupants.
+Household utensils lay as they were left, rust and dirt encrusted on
+them. An open book, limp and mildewed, lay face downwards on the table,
+while many others were scattered about both rooms, together with much
+paper, scored with faded ink. The curtains hung in shreds about the
+windows; a woman's cloak, of an antiquated fashion, drooped from a nail
+behind the door. In an oak chest we found a tumbled heap of yellow
+letters. They were of various dates, extending over a period of four
+months, and with them, apparently intended to receive them, lay a large
+envelope, inscribed with an address in London that has since
+disappeared.
+
+Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples, we read them by the dull
+glow of the burning juniper twigs, and, as we lay aside the last of
+them, there rose from the depths below us a wailing cry, and all night
+long it rose and died away, and rose again, and died away again; whether
+born of our brain or of some human thing, God knows.
+
+[Illustration: "I SPEND AS MUCH TIME AS I CAN WITH HER."]
+
+And these, a little altered and shortened, are the letters:--
+
+
+                _Extract from first letter:_
+
+"I cannot tell you, my dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is
+to me after the racket and fret of town. I am almost quite recovered
+already, and am growing stronger every day; and, joy of joys, my brain
+has come back to me, fresher and more vigorous, I think, for its
+holiday. In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely, and the
+difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic. We are perched
+upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain. On one side the rock rises
+almost perpendicularly, piercing the sky; while on the other, two
+thousand feet below us, the torrent hurls itself into black waters of
+the fiord. The house consists of two rooms--or, rather, it is two cabins
+connected by a passage. The larger one we use as a living room, and the
+other is our sleeping apartment. We have no servant, but do everything
+for ourselves. I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely. The nearest
+human habitation is eight miles away, across the mountain, and not a
+soul comes near us. I spend as much time as I can with her, however,
+during the day, and make up for it by working at night after she has
+gone to sleep, and when I question her, she only laughs, and answers
+that she loves to have me all to herself. (Here you will smile
+cynically, I know, and say, 'Humph, I wonder will she say the same when
+they have been married six years instead of six months.') At the rate I
+am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the end of
+August, and then, my dear fellow, you must try and come over, and we
+will walk and talk together 'amid these storm-reared temples of the
+gods.' I have felt a new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to
+'cudgel my brains,' as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will
+make my name."
+
+
+    _Part of the third letter, the second being mere talk about the
+         book (a history apparently) that the man was writing:_
+
+"My dear Joyce,--I have written you two letters--this will make the
+third--but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been
+expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are
+kindly people towards strangers--to say nothing of the inducements of
+trade. A fortnight having passed, however, and the commissariat question
+having become serious, I yesterday set out before dawn, and made my way
+down to the valley; and this gives me something to tell you. Nearing the
+village, I met a peasant woman. To my intense surprise, instead of
+returning my salutation, she stared at me, as if I were some wild
+animal, and shrank away from me as far as the width of the road would
+permit. In the village the same experience awaited me. The children ran
+from me, the people avoided me. At last a grey-haired old man appeared
+to take pity on me, and from him I learnt the explanation of the
+mystery. It seems there is a strange superstition attaching to this
+house in which we are living. My things were brought up here by the two
+men who accompanied me from Dronthiem, but the natives are afraid to go
+near the place, and prefer to keep as far as possible from anyone
+connected with it.
+
+"The story is that the house was built by one Hund, 'a maker of runes'
+(one of the old saga writers, no doubt), who lived here with his young
+wife. All went peacefully until, unfortunately for him, a certain maiden
+stationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him.--Forgive me if I am
+telling you what you know, but a 'saeter' is the name given to the
+upland pastures to which, during the summer, are sent the cattle,
+generally under the charge of one or more of the maids. Here for three
+months these girls will live in their lonely huts entirely shut off from
+the world. Customs change little in this land. Two or three such
+stations are within climbing distance of this house, at this day, looked
+after by the farmers' daughters, as in the days of Hund, 'maker of
+runes.'
+
+"Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would come and tap
+lightly at Hund's door. Hund had built himself two cabins, one behind
+the other (these are now, as I think I have explained to you, connected
+by a passage); the smaller one was the homestead, in the other he carved
+and wrote, so that while the young wife slept the 'maker of runes' and
+the saeter woman sat whispering.
+
+[Illustration: "THE WOMAN WOULD TAP LIGHTLY AT HUND'S DOOR."]
+
+"One night, however, the wife learnt all things, but said no word. Then,
+as now, the ravine in front of the enclosure was crossed by a slight
+bridge of planks, and over this bridge the woman of the saeter passed
+and re-passed each night. On a day when Hund had gone down to fish in
+the fiord, the wife took an axe, and hacked and hewed at the bridge, yet
+it still looked firm and solid; and that night, as Hund sat waiting in
+his workshop, there struck upon his ears a piercing cry, and a crashing
+of logs and rolling rock, and then again the dull roaring of the torrent
+far below.
+
+"But the woman did not die unavenged, for that winter a man, skating far
+down the fiord, noticed a curious object embedded in the ice; and when,
+stooping, he looked closer, he saw two corpses, one gripping the other
+by the throat, and the bodies were the bodies of Hund and his young
+wife.
+
+"Since then, they say the woman of the saeter haunts Hund's house, and
+if she sees a light within she taps upon the door, and no man may keep
+her out. Many, at different times, have tried to occupy the house, but
+strange tales are told of them. 'Men do not live at Hund's saeter,' said
+my old grey-haired friend, concluding his tale, 'they die there.' I have
+persuaded some of the braver of the villagers to bring what provisions
+and other necessaries we require up to a plateau about a mile from the
+house and leave them there. That is the most I have been able to do. It
+comes somewhat as a shock to one to find men and women--fairly educated
+and intelligent as many of them are--slaves to fears that one would
+expect a child to laugh at. But there is no reasoning with
+superstition."
+
+
+   _Extract from the same letter, but from a part seemingly written
+                         a day or two later:_
+
+"At home I should have forgotten such a tale an hour after I had heard
+it, but these mountain fastnesses seem strangely fit to be the last
+stronghold of the supernatural. The woman haunts me already. At night,
+instead of working, I find myself listening for her tapping at the door;
+and yesterday an incident occurred that makes me fear for my own common
+sense. I had gone out for a long walk alone, and the twilight was
+thickening into darkness as I neared home. Suddenly looking up from my
+reverie, I saw, standing on a knoll the other side of the ravine, the
+figure of a woman. She held a cloak about her head, and I could not see
+her face. I took off my cap, and called out a good-night to her, but she
+never moved or spoke. Then, God knows why, for my brain was full of
+other thoughts at the time, a clammy chill crept over me, and my tongue
+grew dry and parched. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her across
+the yawning gorge that divided us, and slowly she moved away, and passed
+into the gloom; and I continued my way. I have said nothing to Muriel,
+and shall not. The effect the story has had upon myself warns me not
+to."
+
+
+               _From a letter dated eleven days later:_
+
+"She has come. I have known she would since that evening I saw her on
+the mountain, and last night she came, and we have sat and looked into
+each other's eyes. You will say, of course, that I am mad--that I have
+not recovered from my fever--that I have been working too hard--that I
+have heard a foolish tale, and that it has filled my overstrung brain
+with foolish fancies--I have told myself all that. But the thing came,
+nevertheless--a creature of flesh and blood? a creature of air? a
+creature of my own imagination? what matter; it was real to me.
+
+"It came last night, as I sat working, alone. Each night I have waited
+for it, listened for it--longed for it, I know now. I heard the passing
+of its feet upon the bridge, the tapping of its hand upon the door,
+three times--tap, tap, tap. I felt my loins grow cold, and a pricking
+pain about my head, and I gripped my chair with both hands, and waited,
+and again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. I rose and slipped the
+bolt of the door leading to the other room, and again I waited, and
+again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. Then I opened the heavy
+outer door, and the wind rushed past me, scattering my papers, and the
+woman entered in, and I closed the door behind her. She threw her hood
+back from her head, and unwound a kerchief from about her neck, and laid
+it on the table. Then she crossed and sat before the fire, and I noticed
+her bare feet were damp with the night dew.
+
+[Illustration: "THE WOMAN ENTERED."]
+
+"I stood over against her and gazed at her, and she smiled at me--a
+strange, wicked smile, but I could have laid my soul at her feet. She
+never spoke or moved, and neither did I feel the need of spoken words,
+for I understood the meaning of those upon the Mount when they said,
+'Let us make here tabernacles: it is good for us to be here.'
+
+"How long a time passed thus I do not know, but suddenly the woman held
+her hand up, listening, and there came a faint sound from the other
+room. Then swiftly she drew her hood about her face and passed out,
+closing the door softly behind her; and I drew back the bolt of the
+inner door and waited, and hearing nothing more, sat down, and must have
+fallen asleep in my chair.
+
+"I awoke, and instantly there flashed through my mind the thought of the
+kerchief the woman had left behind her, and I started from my chair to
+hide it. But the table was already laid for breakfast, and my wife sat
+with her elbows on the table and her head between her hands, watching me
+with a look in her eyes that was new to me.
+
+"She kissed me, though her lips were a little cold, and I argued to
+myself that the whole thing must have been a dream. But later in the
+day, passing the open door when her back was towards me, I saw her take
+the kerchief from a locked chest and look at it.
+
+"I have told myself it must have been a kerchief of her own, and that
+all the rest has been my imagination--that if not, then my strange
+visitant was no spirit, but a woman, and that, if human thing knows
+human thing, it was no creature of flesh and blood that sat beside me
+last night. Besides, what woman would she be? The nearest saeter is a
+three hours' climb to a strong man, the paths are dangerous even in
+daylight: what woman would have found them in the night? What woman
+would have chilled the air around her, and have made the blood flow cold
+through all my veins? Yet if she come again I will speak to her. I will
+stretch out my hand and see whether she be mortal thing or only air."
+
+
+                        _The fifth letter:_
+
+"My dear Joyce,--Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is
+doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read to
+you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may one
+day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you, can
+laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide away--putting
+the words down on paper saves my screaming them aloud.
+
+"She comes each night now, taking the same seat beside the embers, and
+fixing upon me those eyes, with the hell-light in them, that burn into
+my brain; and at rare times she smiles, and all my Being passes out of
+me, and is hers. I make no attempt to work. I sit listening for her
+footsteps on the creaking bridge, for the rustling of her feet upon the
+grass, for the tapping of her hand upon the door. No word is uttered
+between us. Each day I say: 'When she comes to-night I will speak to
+her. I will stretch out my hand and touch her.' Yet when she enters, all
+thought and will goes out from me.
+
+[Illustration: "I STOOD GAZING AT HER."]
+
+"Last night, as I stood gazing at her, my soul filled with her wondrous
+beauty as a lake with moonlight, her lips parted, and she started from
+her chair, and, turning, I thought I saw a white face pressed against
+the window, but as I looked it vanished. Then she drew her cloak about
+her, and passed out. I slid back the bolt I always draw now, and stole
+into the other room, and, taking down the lantern, held it above the
+bed. But Muriel's eyes were closed as if in sleep."
+
+
+                    _Extract from the sixth letter:_
+
+"It is not the night I fear, but the day. I hate the sight of this woman
+with whom I live, whom I call 'wife.' I shrink from the blow of her cold
+lips, the curse of her stony eyes. She has seen, she has learnt; I feel
+it, I know it. Yet she winds her arms around my neck, and calls me
+sweetheart, and smooths my hair with her soft, false hands. We speak
+mocking words of love to one another, but I know her cruel eyes are ever
+following me. She is plotting her revenge, and I hate her, I hate her, I
+hate her!"
+
+
+                    _Part of the seventh letter:_
+
+"This morning I went down to the fiord. I told her I should not be back
+until the evening. She stood by the door watching me until we were mere
+specks to one another, and a promontory of the mountain shut me from
+view. Then, turning aside from the track, I made my way, running and
+stumbling over the jagged ground, round to the other side of the
+mountain, and began to climb again. It was slow, weary work. Often I had
+to go miles out of my road to avoid a ravine, and twice I reached a high
+point only to have to descend again. But at length I crossed the ridge,
+and crept down to a spot from where, concealed, I could spy upon my own
+house. She--my wife--stood by the flimsy bridge. A short hatchet, such
+as butchers use, was in her hand. She leant against a pine trunk, with
+her arm behind her, as one stands whose back aches with long stooping in
+some cramped position; and even at that distance I could see the cruel
+smile about her lips.
+
+"Then I recrossed the ridge, and crawled down again, and, waiting until
+evening, walked slowly up the path. As I came in view of the house she
+saw me, and waved her handkerchief to me, and, in answer, I waved my
+hat, and shouted curses at her that the wind whirled away into the
+torrent. She met me with a kiss, and I breathed no hint to her that I
+had seen. Let her devil's work remain undisturbed. Let it prove to me
+what manner of thing this is that haunts me. If it be a Spirit, then the
+bridge will bear it safely; if it be woman----
+
+"But I dismiss the thought. If it be human thing why does it sit gazing
+at me, never speaking; why does my tongue refuse to question it; why
+does all power forsake me in its presence, so that I stand as in a
+dream? Yet if it be Spirit, why do I hear the passing of her feet; and
+why does the night-rain glisten on her hair?
+
+[Illustration: "TO THE UTMOST EDGE."]
+
+"I force myself back into my chair. It is far into the night, and I am
+alone, waiting, listening. If it be Spirit, she will come to me; and if
+it be woman, I shall hear her cry above the storm--unless it be a demon
+mocking me.
+
+"I have heard the cry. It rose, piercing and shrill, above the storm,
+above the riving and rending of the bridge, above the downward crashing
+of the logs and loosened stones. I hear it as I listen now. It is
+cleaving its way upward from the depths below. It is wailing through the
+room as I sit writing.
+
+"I have crawled upon my belly to the utmost edge of the still standing
+pier until I could feel with my hand the jagged splinters left by the
+fallen planks, and have looked down. But the chasm was full to the brim
+with darkness. I shouted, but the wind shook my voice into mocking
+laughter. I sit here, feebly striking at the madness that is creeping
+nearer and nearer to me. I tell myself the whole thing is but the fever
+in my brain. The bridge was rotten. The storm was strong. The cry is but
+a single one among the many voices of the mountain. Yet still I listen,
+and it rises, clear and shrill, above the moaning of the pines, above
+the mighty sobbing of the waters. It beats like blows upon my skull, and
+I know that she will never come again."
+
+
+                    _Extract from the last letter:_
+
+"I shall address an envelope to you, and leave it among them. Then,
+should I never come back, some chance wanderer may one day find and post
+them to you, and you will know.
+
+"My books and writings remain untouched. We sit together of a
+night--this woman I call 'wife' and I--she holding in her hands some
+knitted thing that never grows longer by a single stitch, and I with a
+volume before me that is ever open at the same page. And day and night
+we watch each other stealthily, moving to and fro about the silent
+house; and at times, looking round swiftly, I catch the smile upon her
+lips before she has time to smooth it away.
+
+"We speak like strangers about this and that, making talk to hide our
+thoughts. We make a pretence of busying ourselves about whatever will
+help us to keep apart from one another.
+
+"At night, sitting here between the shadows and the dull glow of the
+smouldering twigs, I sometimes think I hear the tapping I have learnt to
+listen for, and I start from my seat, and softly open the door and look
+out. But only the Night stands there. Then I close-to the latch, and
+she--the living woman--asks me in her purring voice what sound I heard,
+hiding a smile as she stoops low over her work, and I answer lightly,
+and, moving towards her, put my arm about her, feeling her softness and
+her suppleness, and wondering, supposing I held her close to me with one
+arm while pressing her from me with the other, how long before I should
+hear the cracking of her bones.
+
+"For here, amid these savage solitudes, I also am grown savage. The old
+primeval passions of love and hate stir within me, and they are fierce
+and cruel and strong, beyond what you men of the later ages could
+understand. The culture of the centuries has fallen from me as a flimsy
+garment whirled away by the mountain wind; the old savage instincts of
+the race lie bare. One day I shall twine my fingers about her full white
+throat, and her eyes will slowly come towards me, and her lips will
+part, and the red tongue creep out; and backwards, step by step, I shall
+push her before me, gazing the while upon her bloodless face, and it
+will be my turn to smile. Backwards through the open door, backwards
+along the garden path between the juniper bushes, backwards till her
+heels are overhanging the ravine, and she grips life with nothing but
+her little toes, I shall force her, step by step, before me. Then I
+shall lean forward, closer, closer, till I kiss her purpling lips, and
+down, down, down, past the startled sea-birds, past the white spray of
+the foss, past the downward peeping pines, down, down, down, we will go
+together, till we find my love where she lies sleeping beneath the
+waters of the fiord."
+
+
+With these words ended the last letter, unsigned. At the first streak of
+dawn we left the house, and, after much wandering, found our way back to
+the valley. But of our guide we heard no news. Whether he remained still
+upon the mountain, or whether by some false step he had perished upon
+that night, we never learnt.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: ALPHONSE DAUDET.]
+
+_Alphonse Daudet at Home._
+
+BY MARIE ADELAIDE BELLOC.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAN BERG, J. BARNARD DAVIS, AND E. M. JESSOP.
+
+          -----
+
+M. and Madame Alphonse Daudet--for it is impossible to mention the great
+French writer without also immediately recalling the personality of the
+lady who has been his best friend, his tireless collaboratrice, and his
+constant companion during the last twenty-five years--have made their
+home on the top storey of a fine stately house in the Rue de Belle
+Chasse, a narrow old-world street running from the Boulevard Saint
+Germain up into the Quartier Latin.
+
+[Illustration: MADAME DAUDET.]
+
+Like most houses on the left bank of the Seine, the "hotel" is built
+round a large courtyard, the Daudets' pretty _appartement_ being
+situated on the side furthest from the street, and commanding a splendid
+view of Southern Paris, whilst in the immediate foreground is one of
+those peaceful, quiet gardens, owned by some of the old Paris religious
+foundations still left undisturbed by the march of Republican time.
+
+The study in which Alphonse Daudet does all his work, and receives his
+more intimate friends, is opposite the hall door, but a strict watch is
+kept by Madame Daudet's faithful servants, and no one is allowed to
+break in upon the privacy of _le maitre_ without some good and
+sufficient reason. Few writers are so personally popular with their
+readers as is Alphonse Daudet; there is about most of his books a
+strange magnetic charm, and every post brings him quaint, curious, and
+often pathetic, epistles from men and women all over the world, and of
+every nationality, discussing his characters, suggesting alterations,
+offering him plots, and asking his advice on their own most intimate
+cases of conscience, whilst, if he were to grant all the requests for
+personal interviews which come to him day by day, he would literally
+have not a moment for work or leisure.
+
+[Illustration: DAUDET AT WORK.]
+
+But to those who have the good fortune of his acquaintance, M. Daudet is
+the most delightful and courteous of hosts, and, though rarely alluding
+to his own work in conversation, he will always answer those questions
+put to him to the best of his ability, and as one who has thought much
+and deeply on most subjects of human interest.
+
+The first glance shows you that Daudet's study is a real work room;
+there is no straining after effect; the plain, comfortable furniture,
+including the large solid writing table covered with papers, proofs,
+literary biblots, and the various instruments necessary to his craft,
+were made and presented to him by a number of workmen, his military
+comrades during the war, and serve to perpetually remind him of what, he
+says, has been the most instructive and intensely interesting period of
+his life. "That terrible year," I have heard him exclaim more than once,
+"taught me many things. It was then for the first time that I learned to
+appreciate our workpeople, _le peuple_. Had it not been for what I then
+went through, one whole side of good human nature would have been shut
+to me. The Paris _ouvrier_ is a splendid fellow, and among my best
+friends I reckon some of those who fought by my side in 1870."
+
+During those same eventful months M. Daudet made the acquaintance of the
+man who was afterwards to prove his most indefatigable helper; it was
+between one of the long waits outside the fortifications. To his
+surprise, the novelist saw a young soldier reading a Latin book. In
+answer to a question, the _pioupiou_ explained that he had been brought
+up to be a priest, but had finally changed his mind and become a
+workman. Now, the ex seminarist is M. Daudet's daily companion and
+literary agent; it is he who makes all the necessary arrangements with
+editors and publishers, and several of Daudet's later writings have been
+dictated to him.
+
+All that refers to a great writer's methods cannot but be of interest.
+Daudet's novels are really human documents, for from early youth he has
+put down from day to day, almost from hour to hour, all that he has
+seen, heard, and done. He calls his note-books "my memory." When about
+to start a new novel he draws out a general plan, then he copies out all
+the incidents from his note-books which he thinks will be of value to
+him for the story. The next step is to make out a rough list of
+chapters, and then, with infinite care, and constant corrections, he
+begins writing out the book, submitting each page to his wife's
+criticism, and discussing with her the working out of every incident,
+and the arrangement of every episode. Unlike most novelists, M. Daudet
+does not care to always write on the same paper, and his manuscripts are
+not all written on paper of the same size. Of late he has been using
+some large, rough hand-made sheets, which Victor Hugo had specially made
+for his own use, and which have been given to M. Daudet by Georges Hugo,
+who knew what a pleasure his grandfather would have taken in the thought
+that any of his literary leavings would have been useful to his little
+Jeanne's father-in-law, for it will be remembered that Leon Daudet, the
+novelist's eldest child, married some three years ago "Peach Blossom"
+Hugo, for whom was written _L'Art d'etre Grand-pere_.
+
+Although M. Daudet takes precious care of his little note-books, both
+past and present, he has never troubled himself much as to what became
+of the fair copies of his novels. They remain in the printers' and
+publishers' hands, and will probably some day attain a fabulous value.
+
+His handwriting is clear, and somewhat feminine in form, and he always
+uses a steel pen. Till his health broke down he wrote every word of his
+manuscripts himself, but of late he has been obliged to dictate to his
+wife and two secretaries; re-writing, however, much of his work in the
+margin of the manuscript, and also adding to, and polishing, each
+chapter in proof, for no writer pays more attention to style and
+chiselled form than the man who has been called the French Dickens, and
+whose compositions, to the uninitiated, would seem to be singularly
+spontaneous.
+
+Since the war M. Daudet has never had an hour's sleep without artificial
+aid, such as chloral; but devotees of Lady Nicotine will be interested
+to learn that in answer to a question he once said, "I have smoked a
+great deal while working, and the more I smoked the better I worked. I
+have never noticed that tobacco is injurious, but I must admit that,
+when I am not well, even the smell of a cigarette is odious." He added
+that he had a great horror of alcohol as a stimulant for work, and has
+ofttimes been heard to say that those who believe in working on spirits
+had better make up their minds to become total abstainers if they hope
+to achieve anything in the way of literature.
+
+Unlike most literary _menages_, M. and Madame Daudet are one of those
+happy couples who are said by cynics to be the exceptions which prove
+the rule. Literary men are proverbially unlucky in their helpmates; and
+geniuses have been proved again and again to reserve their fitful
+humours and uncertain tempers for home use. M. and Madame Daudet are at
+once sympathetic, literary partners, and the happiest of married
+couples; in _L'Enfance d'une Parisienne_, _Enfants et Meres_, and
+_Fragments d'un Livre Inedit_, Madame Daudet has proved that she is in
+her own way as original and delicate an artist as her husband. She has
+never written a novel, but, as a great French critic once aptly
+remarked, "Each one of her books contains the essence of innumerable
+novels." Her literary work has been an afterthought, an accident; she is
+not anxious to make a name by her writing, and her most intimate friends
+have never heard her mention her literary faculty; like most
+Frenchwomen, a devoted mother, when not helping her husband, she is
+absorbed in her children, and whilst her boys were at the Lycee she
+taught herself Latin in order to help them prepare their lessons every
+evening; and she is now her young daughter's closest companion and
+friend.
+
+One of the most charming characteristics of Alphonse Daudet is his love
+for, and pride in, his wife. "I often think of my first meeting with
+her," he will say. "I was quite a young fellow, and had a great
+prejudice against literary women, and especially against poetesses, but
+I came, saw, and was conquered, and," he will conclude smiling, "I have
+remained under the charm ever since.... People sometimes ask me whether
+I approve of women writing; how should I not, when my own wife has
+always written, and when all that is best in my literary work is owing
+to her influence and suggestion. There are whole realms of human nature
+which we men cannot explore. We have not eyes to see, nor hearts to
+understand, certain subtle things which a woman perceives at once; yes,
+women have a mission to fulfil in the literature of to-day."
+
+[Illustration: THE PROVENCAL FURNITURE.]
+
+Strangely enough, M. Daudet made the acquaintance of his future wife
+through a favourable review he wrote of a volume of verse published by
+her parents, M. and Madame Allard. They were so pleased with the notice
+that they wrote and asked the critic to come and see them. How truly
+thankful the one time critic must now feel that he was inspired to deal
+gently by the little _bouquin_.
+
+Madame Daudet is devoted to art, and her pretty _salon_ is one of the
+most artistic _interieurs_ in Paris, whilst the dining-room, fitted up
+with old Provencal furniture, looks as though it had been lifted bodily
+out of some fastness in troubadour land.
+
+The tie between the novelist and his children is a very close one; he
+has said of Leon that there stands his best work; and, indeed, the young
+man is in a fair way to make his father's words come true, for,
+inheriting much of both parents' literary faculty, M. Leon Daudet lately
+made his _debut_ as a novelist with _Hoeres_, a remarkable story with
+a purpose, in which the author strove to explain his somewhat curious
+theories on the laws of heredity. Having originally been intended for
+the medical profession, he takes a special interest in this subject. It
+is curious that three such distinct and different literary gifts should
+exist simultaneously in the same family.
+
+As soon as even the cool, narrow streets of the Quartier Latin begin to
+grow dusty and sultry with summer heat, the whole Daudet family emigrate
+to the novelist's charming country cottage at Champrosay. There old
+friends, such as M. Edmond de Goncourt, are ever made welcome, and life
+is one long holiday for those who bring no work with them. Daudet
+himself has described his country home as being "situated thirty miles
+from Paris, at a lovely bend of the Seine, a provincial Seine invaded by
+bulrushes, purple irises, and water-lilies, bearing on its bosom tufts
+of grass, and clumps of tangled roots, on which the tired dragon-flies
+alight, and allow themselves to be lazily floated down the stream."
+
+[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.]
+
+It was in a round, ivy-clad pavilion overhanging the river that _le
+maitre du logis_ wrote _L'Immortel_. On an exceptionally fine day he
+would get into a canoe, and let it drift among the reeds, till, in the
+shadow of an old willow-tree, the boat became his study, and the two
+crossed oars his desk. Strange that so bitter and profoundly cynical a
+study of modern Paris life should have been evolved in such
+surroundings, whilst the _Contes de Mon Moulin_, and many other of his
+most ideal _nouvelles_, were written in the sombre grey house where M.
+and Madame Daudet lived during many years of their early married life.
+
+The author of _Les Rois en Exile_ has not yet utilised Champrosay as a
+background to any of his stories; he takes notes, however, of all that
+goes on in the little village community, much as he did in the Duc de
+Morny's splendid palace, and in time his readers may have the pleasure
+of perusing an idyllic yet realistic picture of French country life, an
+outcome of his summer experiences.
+
+Alphonse Daudet was born just fifty-three years ago in the sunlit, white
+_batisse_ at Nimes, which he has described in the painful, melancholy
+history of his childhood, entitled _Le Petit Chose_. At an age when
+other French boys are themselves _lyceans_, he became usher in a kind of
+provincial Dotheboys Hall; and some idea of what the sensitive, poetical
+lad went through may be gained by the fact that he more than once
+seriously contemplated committing suicide. But fate had something better
+in store for _le petit Daudet_, and his seventeenth birthday found him
+in Paris sharing his brother Ernest's garret, having arrived in the
+great city with just forty sous remaining of his little store, after
+spending two days and nights in a third-class carriage.
+
+Even now, there is a touch of protection and maternal affection in the
+way in which Ernest Daudet regards his younger brother, and the latter
+never mentions his early struggles without recalling the
+self-abnegation, generous kindliness, and devotion of "_mon frere_." The
+two went through some hard times together. "Ah!" says the great writer,
+speaking of those days, "I thought my brother passing rich, for he
+earned seventy-five francs a month by being secretary to an old
+gentleman at whose dictation he took down his memoirs." And so they
+managed to live, going occasionally to the theatre, and seeing not a
+little of life, on the sum of thirty shillings a month apiece!
+
+When receiving visitors, the author of _Tartarin_ places himself with
+his back to the light on one of the deep, comfortable couches which line
+the fireplace of his study, but from out the huge mass of his powerful
+head, surrounded by the lionese mane, which has become famous in his
+portraits and photographs, gleam two piercing dark eyes, which, like
+those of most short-sighted people, seem to perceive what is immediately
+before them with an extra intensity of vision.
+
+To ask one who has far outrun his fellows what he thinks of the race
+seems a superfluous question. Yet, in answer as to what he would say of
+literature as a profession, M. Daudet gave a startlingly clear and
+decided answer.
+
+[Illustration: THE BILLIARD AND FENCING ROOM.]
+
+"The man who has it in him to write will do so, however great his
+difficulties, but I would never advise any young fellow to make
+literature his profession, and I think it is nothing short of madness to
+give up a good chance of making your livelihood in some other, though
+perhaps less congenial, fashion, in order to pursue the calling of
+letters. You would be surprised if you knew the number of young people
+who come to me for sympathy with their literary aspirations, and as for
+the manuscripts submitted to me, the sending of them back keeps one of
+my friends pretty busy, for of late years I have had to refuse to look
+at anything sent to me in this way. In vain I say to those who come to
+consult me, 'However much occupied you are with your present way of
+earning a livelihood, if you have it in you to write anything you will
+surely find time to do it.' They go away unconvinced, and a few months
+later sees them launched on the perilous seas of journalism; with now
+really not a moment to spare for serious writing! Of course, if the
+would-be writer has already an income, I see no reason why he should not
+give himself up to literature altogether. It was in order to provide a
+certain number of coming geniuses with the wherewithal to find at least
+spare time in which to write possible masterpieces, that my friend
+Edmond de Goncourt and his brother Jules conceived the noble and
+unselfish idea to found an institute, the members of which would require
+but two qualifications, poverty and exceptional literary power. If a
+would-be writer can find someone who will assist him in this manner,
+well and good; but no one is a prophet in his own country, and friends
+and relations are, as a rule, most unwilling to waste good money on
+their young literary acquaintances. Still I admit that the Academie de
+Goncourt would fulfil a want, for there have been, and are, great
+geniuses who positively cannot produce their masterpieces from bitter
+poverty."
+
+"Then do you believe in journalism as a stepping-stone to literature?"
+
+"I cannot say that I do, though, strangely enough, there is scarcely one
+of us--I allude to latter-day French novelists and critics--who did not
+spend at least a portion of his youth doing hard, pot-boiling newspaper
+work. But I deplore the necessity of a novelist having to make
+journalism his start in life, for, as all newspaper writing has to be
+done against time, his style must certainly deteriorate, and his
+literature becomes journalese."
+
+"What was your own first literary essay, M. Daudet?"
+
+"You know I was born a poet, not a novelist; besides, when I was a lad
+everyone wrote poetry, so I made my _debut_ by a book of verse entitled
+_Mes Amoureuses_. I was just eighteen, and this was my first stroke of
+luck; for six weary months I had carried my poor little manuscript from
+publisher to publisher, but, strange to say, I never got further than
+these great people's ante-chamber; at last, a certain Tardieu, a
+publisher who was himself an author, took pity on my _Amoureuses_. The
+title had been a happy inspiration, and the volume received some
+favourable notices, and led indirectly to my getting journalistic work."
+
+Indeed, it seems to have been more or less of an accident that M. Daudet
+did not devote himself entirely to poetry; and probably the very poverty
+which seemed so bitter to him during his youth obliged him to try what
+he could do in the way of story-writing, that branch of literature being
+supposed by the French to be the best from a pecuniary point of view. So
+remarkable were his verses felt to be by the critics of the day, that
+one of them wrote, "When dying, Alfred de Musset left his two pens as a
+last legacy to our literature--Feuillet has taken that of prose; into
+Daudet's hand has slipped that of verse."
+
+But some years passed before the poet-journalist became the novelist; at
+one time he dreamed of being a great dramatist, and before he was
+five-and-twenty several of his plays had been produced at leading Paris
+theatres. Fortune smiled upon him, and he was appointed to be one of the
+Duc de Morny's secretaries, a post he held four years, and which
+supplied him with much valuable material for several of his later
+novels, notably _Les Rois en Exile_, _Le Nabab_, and _Numa Romestan_,
+for during this period he was brought into close and intimate contact
+with all the noteworthy personages of the Third Empire, making at the
+same time the acquaintance of most of the literary lions of the
+day--Flaubert, with whom he became very intimate; Edmond and Jules de
+Goncourt, the two gifted brothers who may be said to have founded the
+realistic school of fiction years before Emile Zola came forward as the
+apostle of realism; Tourguenieff, the two Dumas, and many others who
+welcomed enthusiastically the young Southern poet into their midst.
+
+[Illustration: THE TUILERIES STONE.]
+
+The first page of _Le Petit Chose_ was written in the February of 1866,
+and was finished during the author's honeymoon, but it was with _Fromont
+Jeune et Risler Aine_, published six years later, that he made his first
+real success as a novelist, the work being crowned by the French
+Academy, and arousing a veritable enthusiasm both at home and abroad.
+
+Alphonse Daudet is not a quick worker; he often allows several years to
+elapse between his novels, and refuses to bind himself down to any
+especial date. _Tartarin de Tarascon_ was, however, an exception to this
+rule, for the author wrote it for Messrs. Guillaume, the well-known art
+publishers, who, wishing to popularise an improved style of
+illustration, offered M. Daudet 150,000 francs (L6,000) to write them a
+serio-comic story. _Tartarin_, which obtained an instant popularity,
+proved the author's versatility, but won him the hatred of the good
+people of Provence, who have never forgiven him for having made fun of
+their foibles. On one occasion a bagman, passing through Tarascon, put,
+by way of a jest, the name "Alphonse Daudet" in his hotel register. The
+news quickly spread, and had it not been for the prompt help of the
+innkeeper, who managed to smuggle him out of the town, he might easily
+have had cause to regret his foolish joke.
+
+Judging by sales, _Sapho_ has been the most popular of Daudet's novels,
+for over a quarter of a million copies have been sold. Like most of his
+stories, its appearance provoked a great deal of discussion, as did the
+author's dedication "To my two sons at the age of twenty." But, in
+answer to his critics, Daudet always replies, "I wrote the book with a
+purpose, and I have succeeded in painting the picture as I wished it to
+appear. Each of the types mentioned by me really existed; each incident
+was copied from life...."
+
+The year following its publication M. Daudet dramatised _Sapho_, and the
+play was acted with considerable success at the Gymnase, Jane Hading
+being in the _title-role_. Last year the play was again acted in Paris,
+with Madame Rejane as the heroine.
+
+[Illustration: DAUDET'S YOUNGER SON.]
+
+M. Daudet, like most novelists, takes a special interest in all that
+concerns dramatic art and the theatre. When his health permits it he is
+a persistent first-nighter, and most of his novels lend themselves in a
+rare degree to stage adaptation.
+
+I once asked him what he thought of the attempts now so frequently made
+to introduce unconventionality and naked realism on the stage.
+
+"I have every sympathy," he replied, "with the attempts made by Antoine
+and his Theatre Libre to discover strong and unconventional work. But I
+do not believe in the new terms which a certain school have invented for
+everything; after all, the play's the thing, whether it is produced by a
+group who dub themselves romantics, realists, old or new style. Realism
+is not necessarily real life; a photograph only gives a rigid, neutral
+side of the object placed in front of the camera. A dissection of what
+we call affection does not give so vivid an impression of the
+master-passion as a true love-sonnet written by a poet. Life is a thing
+of infinite gradations; a dramatist wishes to show existence as it
+really is, not as it may be under exceptionally revolting
+circumstances."
+
+His own favourite dramatist and writer is Shakespeare, whom, however, he
+only knows by translation, and _Hamlet_ and _Desdemona_ are his
+favourite hero and heroine in the fiction of the world, although he
+considered Balzac his literary master.
+
+M. Daudet will seldom be beguiled into talking on politics. Like all
+Frenchmen, the late Panama scandals have profoundly shocked and
+disgusted him, as revealing a state of things discreditable to the
+Government of his country. But the creator of Desiree Dolobelle has a
+profound belief in human nature, and believes that, come what may, the
+novelist will never lack beautiful and touching models in the world
+round and about him.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+_The Dismal Throng._
+
+BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEO. HUTCHINSON.
+
+(_Written after reading the last Study in Literary Distemper._)
+
+                 -----
+
+    The Fairy Tale of Life is done,
+      The horns of Fairyland cease blowing,
+    The Gods have left us one by one,
+      And the last Poets, too, are going!
+    Ended is all the mirth and song,
+      Fled are the merry Music-makers;
+    And what remains? The Dismal Throng
+      Of literary Undertakers!
+
+[Illustration: THOMAS HARDY.]
+
+    Clad in deep black of funeral cut,
+      With faces of forlorn expression,
+    Their eyes half open, souls close shut,
+      They stalk along in pale procession;
+    The latest seed of Schopenhauer,
+      Born of a Trull of Flaubert's choosing,
+    They cry, while on the ground they glower,
+      "There's nothing in the world amusing!"
+
+[Illustration: ZOLA.]
+
+    There's Zola, grimy as his theme,
+      Nosing the sewers with cynic pleasure,
+    Sceptic of all that poets dream,
+      All hopes that simple mortals treasure;
+    With sense most keen for odours strong,
+      He stirs the Drains and scents disaster,
+    Grim monarch of the Dismal Throng
+      Who bow their heads before "the Master."
+
+    There's Miss Matilda[1] in the south,
+        There's Valdes[2] in Madrid and Seville,
+            There's mad Verlaine[3] with gangrened mouth.
+                Grinning at Rimbaud and the Devil.
+    From every nation of the earth,
+        Instead of smiling merry-makers,
+            They come, the foes of Love and Mirth,
+                The Dismal Throng of Undertakers.
+
+[Illustration: TOLSTOI.]
+
+    There's Tolstoi, towering in his place
+      O'er all the rest by head and shoulders;
+    No sunshine on that noble face
+      Which Nature meant to charm beholders!
+    Mad with his self-made martyr's shirt,
+      Obscene, through hatred of obsceneness,
+    He from a pulpit built of Dirt
+      Shrieks his Apocalypse of Cleanness!
+
+[Illustration: IBSEN.]
+
+    There's Ibsen,[4] puckering up his lips,
+      Squirming at Nature and Society,
+    Drawing with tingling finger-tips
+      The clothes off naked Impropriety!
+    So nice, so nasty, and so grim,
+      He hugs his gloomy bottled thunder;
+    To summon up one smile from _him_
+      Would be a miracle of wonder!
+
+[Illustration: PIERRE LOTI.]
+
+    There's Maupassant,[5] who takes his cue
+      From Dame Bovary's bourgeois troubles;
+    There's Bourget, dyed his own sick "blue,"
+      There's Loti, blowing blue soap bubbles;
+    There's Mendes[6] (no Catullus, he!)
+      There's Richepin,[7] sick with sensual passion.
+    The Dismal Throng! So foul, so free,
+      Yet sombre all, as is the fashion.
+
+    "Turn down the lights! put out the Sun!
+        Man is unclean and morals muddy.
+            The Fairy Tale of Life is done,
+                Disease and Dirt must be our study!
+    Tear open Nature's genial heart,
+        Let neither God nor gods escape us,
+            But spare, to give our subjects zest,
+                The basest god of all--Priapus!"
+
+    The Dismal Throng! 'Tis thus they preach,
+        From Christiania to Cadiz,
+            Recruited as they talk and teach
+                By dingy lads and draggled ladies;
+    Without a sunbeam or a song,
+        With no clear Heaven to hunger after;
+            The Dismal Throng! the Dismal Throng!
+                The foes of Life and Love and Laughter!
+
+    By Shakespere's Soul! if this goes on,
+        From every face of man and woman
+            The gift of gladness will be gone,
+                And laughter will be thought inhuman!
+    The only beast who smiles is Man!
+        _That_ marks him out from meaner creatures!
+            Confound the Dismal Throng, who plan
+                To take God's birth-mark from our features!
+
+    Manfreds who walk the hospitals.
+        Laras and Giaours grown scientific,
+            They wear the clothes and bear the palls
+                Of Stormy Ones once thought terrific;
+    They play the same old funeral tune,
+        And posture with the same dejection,
+            But turn from howling at the moon
+                To literary vivisection!
+
+[Illustration: OSCAR WILDE.]
+
+    And while they loom before our view,
+      Dark'ning the air that should be sunny,
+    Here's Oscar,[8] growing dismal too,
+      Our Oscar, who was once so funny!
+    Blue china ceases to delight
+      The dear curl'd darling of society,
+    Changed are his breeches, once so bright,
+      For foreign breaches of propriety!
+
+[Illustration: GEORGE MOORE.]
+
+    I like my Oscar, tolerate
+      My Archer[9] of the Dauntless Grammar,
+    Nay, e'en my Moore[10] I estimate
+      Not too unkindly, 'spite his clamour;
+    But I prefer my roses still
+      To all the garlic in their garden--
+    Let Hedda gabble as she will,
+      I'll stay with Rosalind, in Arden!
+
+    O for one laugh of Rabelais,
+        To rout these moralising croakers!
+            (The cowls were mightier far than they,
+                Yet fled before that King of Jokers)
+    O for a slash of Fielding's pen
+        To bleed these pimps of Melancholy!
+            O for a Boz, born once again
+                To play the Dickens with such folly!
+
+[Illustration: MARK TWAIN.]
+
+    Yet stay! why bid the dead arise?
+      Why call them back from Charon's wherry?
+    Come, Yankee Mark, with twinkling eyes,
+      Confuse these ghouls with something merry!
+    Come, Kipling, with thy soldiers three,
+      Thy barrack-ladies frail and fervent,
+    Forsake thy themes of butchery
+      And be the merry Muses' servant!
+
+    Come, Dickens' foster-son, Bret Harte!
+        Come, Sims, though gigmen flout thy labours!
+            Tom Hardy, blow the clouds apart
+                With sound of rustic fifes and tabors!
+    Dick Blackmore, full of homely joy,
+        Come from thy garden by the river,
+            And pelt with fruit and flowers, old boy,
+                These dismal bores who drone for ever!
+
+[Illustration: GEORGE MEREDITH.]
+
+    Come, too, George Meredith, whose eyes,
+      Though oft with vapours shadow'd over,
+    Can catch the sunlight from the skies
+      And flash it down on lass and lover;
+    Tell us of Life, and Love's young dream,
+      Show the prismatic soul of Woman,
+    Bring back the Light, whose morning beam
+      First made the Beast upright and human!
+
+    You _can_ be merry, George, I vow!
+        Wit through your cloudiest prosing twinkles!
+            Brood as you may, upon your brow
+                The cynic, Art, has left no wrinkles!
+    For you're a poet to the core,
+        No ghouls can from the Muses win you;
+            So throw your cap i' the air once more,
+                And show the joy of earth that's in you!
+
+    By Heaven! we want you one and all,
+      For Hypochondria is reigning--
+    The Mater Dolorosa's squall
+      Makes Nature hideous with complaining!
+    Ah! who will paint the Face that smiled
+      When Art was virginal and vernal--
+    The pure Madonna with her Child,
+      Pure as the light, and as eternal!
+
+    Pest on these dreary, dolent airs!
+      Confound these funeral pomps and poses!
+    Is Life Dyspepsia's and Despair's,
+      And Love's complexion all _chlorosis_?
+    A lie! There's Health, and Mirth, and Song,
+      The World still laughs, and goes a-Maying--
+    The dismal, droning, doleful Throng
+      Are only smuts in sunshine playing!
+
+    Play up, ye horns of Fairyland!
+      Shine out, O sun, and planets seven!
+    Beyond these clouds a beckoning Hand
+      Gleams from the lattices of Heaven!
+    The World's alive--still quick, not dead,
+      It needs no Undertaker's warning;
+    So put the Dismal Throng to bed,
+      And wake once more to Light and Morning!
+
+              *       *       *
+
+  [1] Mathilde Serao, an Italian novelist.
+
+  [2] A Spanish novelist.
+
+  [3] Verlaine and Rimbaud, two poets of the Parisian Decadence.
+
+  [4] A Norwegian playwright.
+
+  [5] Guy de Maupassant, Paul Bourget, and Pierre Loti, novelists of the
+  Decadence.
+
+  [6] Catulle Mendes, a Parisian poet and novelist.
+
+  [7] Jean Richepin, ditto.
+
+  [8] Mr. Oscar Wilde.
+
+  [9] Mr. William Archer, a newspaper critic.
+
+  [10] Mr. George Moore, an author and newspaper critic.
+
+
+     NOTE.--These verses refer to a literary phenomenon that will in
+     time become historical, that phenomenon being the sudden growth, in
+     all parts of Europe, of a fungus-literature bred of Foulness and
+     Decay; and contemporaneously, the intrusion into all parts of human
+     life of a Calvinistic yet materialistic Morality. This literature
+     of a sunless Decadence has spread widely, by virtue of its own
+     uncleanness, and its leading characteristics are gloom, ugliness,
+     prurience, preachiness, and weedy flabbiness of style. That it has
+     not flourished in Great Britain, save among a small and discredited
+     Cockney minority, is due to the inherent manliness and vigour of
+     the national character. The land of Shakespere, Scott, Burns,
+     Fielding, Dickens, and Charles Reade is protected against literary
+     miasmas by the strength of its humour and the sunniness of its
+     temperament.--R.B.
+
+
+
+
+_In the Hands of Jefferson._
+
+BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY RONALD GRAY.
+
+           -----
+
+It is not difficult to appreciate the recent catastrophe in Oceania,
+where the island of Great Sangir was partially smothered by terrific
+volcanic and seismic convulsions, when one has visited the Western
+Indies.
+
+[Illustration: "WHERE LORD NELSON ENJOYED HIS HONEYMOON."]
+
+Many of these tropic isles probably owe their present isolation, if not
+their actual existence, to mighty earthquake throes in remote ages of
+terrestrial history beyond the memory of man. But man's memory is not a
+very extensive affair, and at best probes the past to the extent of a
+mere rind of a few thousand years. For the rest he has to read the word
+of God, written in fossil and stone and those wondrous arcana of Nature,
+which, each in turn, yields a fragment of the secret of truth to human
+intellect.
+
+Regions that have been produced or largely modified by earthquake and
+volcanic upheaval may, probably enough, vanish at any moment under like
+conditions; and the island of Nevis, hard by St. Christopher, in the
+West Indies, strongly suggests a possibility of such disaster. It has
+always been the regular rendezvous of hurricanes and earthquakes, and it
+consists practically of one vast volcanic mountain which rises abruptly
+from the sea and pushes its densely-wooded sides three thousand two
+hundred feet into the sky. The crater shows no particularly active
+inclination at present, but it is doubtless wide awake and merely
+resting, like its volcanic neighbour in St. Christopher, where the
+breathing of the dormant giant can be noted through rent and rift. The
+Fourth Officer of our steamship "Rhine" assured me, as we approached the
+lofty dome of Nevis and gazed upon its fertile acclivities and fringe of
+palms, that it would never surprise him upon his rounds to find the
+place had altogether disappeared under the Caribbean Sea. He added,
+according to his custom, an allusion to Columbus, and explained also
+that, in the dead and gone days of Slave Traffic, Nevis was a much more
+important spot than it is ever likely to become again. Then, indeed, the
+island enjoyed no little prosperity and importance, being a head centre
+and mart for the industry in negroes. Emancipation, however, wrecked
+Nevis, together with a good many other of the Antilles.
+
+At Montpelier, on this island, Lord Nelson enjoyed his honeymoon, but
+now only a few trees and a little ruined masonry at the corner of a
+sugar-cane plantation appear to mark the spot. Further, it may be
+recorded, as a point in favour of the place, that it grows very
+exceptional Tangerine oranges. These, to taste in perfection, should be
+eaten at the turning point, before their skins grow yellow. We cannot
+judge of the noble possibilities in an orange at home. I brought back a
+dozen of these Nevis Tangerines with me, but I secretly suspected that,
+in spite of their fine reputation, quite inferior sorts would be able to
+beat them by the time they got to England; and it was so.
+
+We stopped half-an-hour only at Charlestown, Nevis, and then proceeded
+to St. Christopher, a sister isle of greater size and scope.
+
+At Antigua, there came aboard the "Rhine" a young man who implicitly
+leads us to understand that he is the most important person in the West
+Indies. He is the Governor of Antigua's own clerk, and is going to St.
+Christopher with a portmanteau, some walking-sticks, and a despatch-box.
+It appears that his significance is gigantic, and that, though the
+nominal seat of government lies at Antigua, yet the real active centre
+of political administration may be found immediately under the Panama
+hat of the Governor's own clerk. This he takes the trouble to explain
+to us. The Governor himself is a puppet, his trusted men of resource and
+portfolio-holders are the veriest fantoccini; for the Governor's own
+clerk pulls the strings, frames the foreign policy, conducts, controls,
+adjusts difficulties, and maintains a right balance between the parties.
+This he condescends to make clear to us.
+
+[Illustration: "THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN THE WEST INDIES."]
+
+I ventured to ask him how many of the more important nations were
+involved with the matters at present in his despatch-box; and he said
+lightly, as though the concern in hand was a mere bagatelle, that only
+the United States, Great Britain and Germany were occupying his
+attention at the moment.
+
+The Model Man said:
+
+"I suppose you'll soon knock off a flea-bite like that?"
+
+And the Governor's own clerk answered:
+
+"Yes, I fancy so, unless any unforeseen hitch happens. Negotiations are
+pending."
+
+I liked his last sentence particularly. It smacked so strongly of miles
+of red tape and months of official delay.
+
+When we reached St. Christopher, it was currently reported that the
+Governor's own clerk had simply come to settle a dispute between two
+negro landowners concerning a fragment of the island rather smaller than
+a table-napkin; but personally I doubt not this was a blind, under cover
+of which he secretly pushed forward those pending negotiations. He
+certainly had fine diplomatic instincts, and a sound view, from a
+political standpoint, of the value of veracity.
+
+When we cast out anchor off Basseterre, St. Christopher, the Treasure
+hurried to me in some sorrow. He had proposed going ashore, with his
+Enchantress and her mother, to show them the sights, but now, to his
+dismay, he found that unforeseen official duties would keep him on the
+ship during our brief sojourn here. With anxiety almost pathetic,
+therefore, he entrusted the Enchantress to me, and commended her mother
+to the Doctor's care. I felt the compliment, and assured him that I
+would simply devote myself to her--platonically withal; but the Doctor
+was not quite so hearty about her mother. However, he must behave like
+a gentleman, whether he felt inclined to do so or not, which the
+Treasure knew, and, therefore, felt safe.
+
+Our party of four started straightway for a ramble in St. Kitts (as St.
+Christopher is more generally called), and, upon landing, we were
+happily met by a middle-aged negro, who had evidently watched our boat
+from afar. He tumbled off a pile of planks, where he had been basking in
+the sun, girt his indifferent raiment about him, and then, by sheer
+force of character, took complete command of our contemplated
+expedition. It may have been hypnotism, or some kindred mystery, but we
+were unresisting children in his hands. He said: "Follow me, gem'men: me
+show you ebb'ryting for nuffing: de 'tanical Garns, de prison-house, de
+public buildings, de church, an' all. Dis way, dis way, ladies. Don't
+listen to dem niggers; dey nobody on dis island."
+
+[Illustration: "'FOLLOW ME, GEM'MEN!'"]
+
+The Doctor alone fought feebly, but it was useless, and, in two minutes,
+our masterful Ethiop had led us all away to see the sights.
+
+"What's your name?" I asked.
+
+"Jefferson, sar; ebb'rybody know Jefferson. Fus', we go to 'tanical
+Garns. Here dey is."
+
+The Botanical Gardens of Basseterre, St. Kitts, were handsome,
+extensive, and well cared for. We wandered with pleasure down broad
+walks, shaded by cabbage palms and palmettos, mahogany and tamarind
+trees; we admired the fountain and varied foliage and blazing
+flower-beds, streaked and splashed with many brilliant blossoms and
+bright-leaved crotons.
+
+"There," said the mother of the Enchantress, pointing to a handsome
+lily, "is a specimen of Crinum Asiaticum."
+
+The Doctor started as though she had used a bad word. He hates a woman
+to know anything he does not, and this botanical display irritated him;
+but our attention was instantly distracted by Jefferson, who, upon
+hearing the lily admired, walked straight up to it and picked it.
+
+[Illustration: "'THERE IS A SPECIMEN OF CRINUM ASIATICUM.'"]
+
+I expostulated. I said:
+
+"You mustn't go plucking curiosities here, Jefferson, or you will get us
+all into hot water."
+
+"Dat's right, massa," he replied. "Me an' de boss garner great ole
+frens. De ladies jus' say what dey like, an' Jefferson pick him off for
+dem."
+
+He was as good as his word, and a fine theatrical display followed, as
+our party grew gradually bolder and bolder, and our guide, evidently
+upon his mettle, complied with each request in turn.
+
+I will cast a fragment of the dialogue and action in dramatic form, so
+that you may the better judge of and picture that wild scene.
+
+THE ENCHANTRESS (_timidly_): Should you think we might have this tiny
+flower?
+
+JEFFERSON: I pick him, missy. (_Does so._)
+
+THE DOCTOR: I wonder if they'd miss one of those red things? They've got
+a good number. I believe they're medicinal. Should you think----?
+
+(_Jefferson picks two of the flowers in question. The Doctor takes
+heart._)
+
+[Illustration: "'MIGHT WE HAVE THAT?'"]
+
+THE MOTHER OF THE ENCHANTRESS: Dear me! Here's a singularly fine
+specimen of the Somethingiensis. I wonder if you----?
+
+(_Jefferson picks it._)
+
+THE DOCTOR: We might have that big affair there, hidden away behind
+those orange trees. Nobody will miss it. I should rather like it for my
+own.
+
+(_Jefferson wrestles with this concern, and the Doctor lends him a
+knife._)
+
+THE ENCHANTRESS: Oh, there's a sweet, sweet blossom! Might we have that,
+and that bud, and that bunch of leaves next to them, Monsieur Jefferson?
+
+(_Jefferson, evidently feeling he is in for a hard morning's work, makes
+further onslaught upon the flora, and drags down three parts of an
+entire tree._)
+
+THE MOTHER OF THE ENCHANTRESS: When you're done there, I will ask you to
+go into this fountain for one of those blue water-lilies.
+
+(_Jefferson, getting rather sick of it, pretends he does not hear._)
+
+THE DOCTOR (_speaking in loud tones which Jefferson cannot ignore_):
+Pick that, please, and that, and those things half-way up that tree.
+
+(_Jefferson begins to grow very hot and uneasy. He peeps about
+nervously, probably with a view to dodging his old friend, the head
+gardener._)
+
+THE CHRONICLER (_feeling that his party is disgracing itself, and
+desiring to reprove them in a parable_): I say, Jefferson, could you cut
+down that palm--the biggest of those two--and have it sent along to the
+ship? If the head gardener is here, he might help you.
+
+JEFFERSON (_losing his temper, missing the parable, and turning upon the
+Chronicler_): No, sar! You no hab no more. I'se dam near pulled off
+ebb'ryting in de 'tanical Garns, an' I'se goin' right away now 'fore
+anyfing's said!
+
+(_Exit Jefferson rapidly, trying to conceal a mass of foliage under his
+ragged coat. The party follows him in single file._)
+
+                           [_Curtain._]
+
+[Illustration: "'I'SE PULLED OFF EBB'RYTING IN THE 'TANICAL GARNS.'"]
+
+I doubt not that, had we met the head gardener just then, our guide
+would have lost a friend.
+
+Henceforth, evidently feeling we were not wholly responsible in this
+foreign atmosphere of wonders, Jefferson stuck to the streets, and took
+us to churches and shops and other places where we had to control
+ourselves and leave things alone.
+
+On the way to a photographer's he cooled down and became instructive
+again. He told us the name and address and bad actions of every white
+person we met. Society at St. Kitts, from his point of view, appeared to
+be in an utterly rotten condition. The most reputable clique was his
+own. We met several of his personal friends. They were generally brown
+or yellow, and he assured us that he had white blood in him too--a fact
+we could not possibly have guessed. Presently he grew confidential, and
+told us that his eldest son was a source of great discomfort to him. At
+the age of fifteen Jefferson Junior had run away from home and left St.
+Kitts to better himself at Barbados. Five years afterwards, however,
+when he had almost passed out of his parents' memory, so Jefferson
+declared, the young man returned, sick and penniless, to the home of his
+birth. I said here:
+
+"This is the Prodigal Son story over again, Jefferson. Did you kill the
+fatted calf, I wonder, and make much of the lad?"
+
+"No, sar," he answered; "didn't kill no fatted nuffing, but I precious
+near kill de podigal son."
+
+Concerning St. Christopher, we have direct authority, from the immortal
+and ubiquitous Columbus himself, that it is an island of exceptional
+advantages; for, delighted with its aspect in 1493, he bestowed his own
+name upon it. Indeed, the place has a beautiful and imposing appearance.
+Dark green forests and emerald tracts of sugar-cane now clothe its
+plains and hills; and Mount Misery, the loftiest peak, rises to a height
+of over four thousand feet. Caribs were the original inhabitants and
+possessors of St. Kitts, but when England and France agreed to divide
+this island between them in 1627, we find the local anthropophagi left
+out in the cold as usual. After bickering for about sixty years, the
+French enjoyed a temporary success, and slew their British brother
+colonists pretty generally. Then Fortune's wheel took a turn, and under
+the Peace of Utrecht, in 1713, St. Kitts became our property from strand
+to mountain-top.
+
+[Illustration: "VOLCANIC INDICATIONS."]
+
+There is only one road in this island, I am told, but that is thirty
+miles long, and extends all round the place. Volcanic indications occur
+freely on Mount Misery, and, as at Nevis, so here, the entire community
+may, some day, find itself very uncomfortably situated. A feature of St.
+Kitts is said to be monkeys, which occur in the woods. These, however,
+like the deer at Tobago, are more frequently heard of than seen. People
+were rather alarmed here, during our flying visit, by a form of
+influenza which settled upon the town of Basseterre; but we, who had
+only lately come from England, and were familiar with the revolting
+lengths to which this malady will go in cold climes, reassured them, and
+laughed their puny tropical species to scorn. Finally, of St. Kitts, I
+would say: From information received in the first case, and from
+personal experience in the second, that there you shall find sugar
+culture in most approved and advanced perfection, and purchase
+walking-sticks of bewildering variety and beauty.
+
+[Illustration: "THE DOCTOR GREW DELIGHTED."]
+
+The ladies of our party decreed they had no wish to visit the gaol--a
+decision on their part which annoyed Jefferson considerably. He
+explained that the St. Kitts prison-house was, perhaps, better worth
+seeing than anything on the island; he also added that a book was kept
+there in which we should be invited to write our names and make remarks.
+They were proof, however, against even this inducement; and, having seen
+the church--a very English building, with homely little square tower--we
+left our Enchantress and her parent at the photographer's, to make such
+purchases as seemed good to them, and await our return.
+
+In this picture-shop, by the way, the Doctor grew almost boisterously
+delighted over a deplorable representation of negro lepers. Young and
+old, male and female, halt and maimed, the poor sufferers had been
+photographed in a long row; and my brother secured the entire panorama
+of them and whined for more. These lamentable representations of lepers
+gave him keener pleasure than anything he had seen since we left the
+Trinidad Hospital. In future, when we reached a new port, he would
+always hurry off to photographers' shops, where they existed, and simply
+clamour for lepers.
+
+I asked Jefferson, as we proceeded to the prison, whether he thought we
+should be allowed to peer about among the inner secrets of the place,
+and he answered: "You see ebb'ryting, sar; de head p'liceman great ole
+fren' of mine."
+
+My brother said:
+
+"You seem to know all the best people in St. Kitts, Jefferson."
+
+And he admitted that it was so. He replied:
+
+"Jefferson 'quainted wid ebb'rybody, an' ebb'rybody 'quainted wid
+Jefferson."
+
+Which put his position in a nutshell.
+
+The prison was not very impressive viewed from outside, being but a mere
+mean black and white building, with outer walls which experienced
+criminals at home would have smiled at. We rang a noisy bell, and were
+allowed to enter upon the demand of Jefferson.
+
+Four sinners immediately met our gaze. They sat pensively breaking
+stones in a wide courtyard. A building, with barred windows, threw black
+shade upon the blazing white ground of this open space; and here,
+shielded from the sun, the convicts reclined and made a show of work.
+Jefferson, with rather a lack of delicate feeling, drew up before this
+little stone-breaking party and beamed upon it. The Doctor and I walked
+past and tried to look as though we saw nobody, but our guide did not
+choose that we should miss the most interesting thing in the place thus.
+
+"Look har, gem'men; see dese prisoners breakin' stones."
+
+"All right, all right," answered my brother; "push on; don't stand
+staring there. We haven't come to gloat over those poor devils."
+
+But I really think the culprits were as disappointed as Jefferson. They
+evidently felt that they were the most important part of the entire
+spectacle, and rather resented being passed over.
+
+"You won't see no more prisoners, if you don't look at dese, sar,"
+answered Jefferson. "Dar's only terrible few convics in de gaol jus'
+now."
+
+"So much the better," answered the unsympathetic Doctor.
+
+It certainly appeared to be a most lonely and languishing place of
+incarceration. We inspected the cells, and observed in one of them a
+peculiar handle fastened against the wall. This proved to be a West
+Indian substitute for the treadmill. The turning of the handle can be
+made easy or difficult by an arrangement of screws without the cell. The
+affair is set for a certain number of revolutions, and a warder
+explained to us that where hard labour has been meted to a prisoner, he
+spends long, weary hours struggling with this apparatus and earning his
+meals. When the necessary number of turns are completed, a bell rings,
+and one can easily picture the relief in many an erring black man's
+heart upon the sound of it. At another corner of the courtyard was piled
+a great heap of cannon-balls. These were used for shot-drill--an arduous
+form of exercise calculated to tame the wildest spirit and break the
+strongest back. The whitewashed cells were wonderfully clean and
+wholesome--more so, in fact, than most public apartments I saw elsewhere
+in the West Indies. This effect may be produced in some measure by the
+absolute lack of household goods and utensils, pictures or
+_bric-a-brac_. In fact, the only piece of furniture I could find
+anywhere was a massive wooden tripod, used for flogging prisoners upon.
+
+[Illustration: "A CHAT WITH THE SUPERINTENDENT."]
+
+Then we went in to have a chat with the Superintendent. He was rather
+nervous and downcast, and apparently feared that we had formed a poor
+opinion of his gaol. He apologised quite humbly for the paucity of
+prisoners, and explained that times were bad, and there was little or
+nothing doing in the criminal world of St. Kitts. He really did not know
+what had come to the place lately. He perfectly remembered, in the good
+old days, having had above fifty prisoners at a time in his hands. Why,
+blacks had been hung there before now. But of late days business grew to
+be a mere farce. If anybody did do anything of a capitally criminal
+nature at St. Kitts, during the next twenty years or so, he very much
+doubted if the authorities would permit him to carry the affair
+through. His opinion was that an assassin would be taken away altogether
+and bestowed upon Antigua. I asked him how he accounted for such a
+stagnation in crime, and he answered, rather bitterly, that the churches
+and chapels and Moravian missions had to be thanked for it. There were
+far too many of them. Ordinary human instincts were frustrated at every
+turn. Little paltry sects of nobodies filled their tin meeting-houses
+Sunday after Sunday, and yet an important Government institution, like
+the gaol, remained practically empty. He could not understand it. At the
+rate things were going, it would be necessary to shut his prison up
+altogether in a year's time. Certainly, one of his present charges--a
+man he felt proud of in every way--was sentenced to penal servitude for
+life, and had only lately made a determined attempt to escape. But he
+could hardly expect the Government to keep up an entire gaol, with
+warders and a Superintendent and everything, for one man, however wicked
+he might be. I tried to cheer him up, and spoke hopefully about the
+natural depravity of everything human. I said:
+
+[Illustration: "FILLED HALF A PAGE WITH COMPLIMENTARY CRITICISM."]
+
+"You must look forward. The Powers of Evil are by no means played out
+yet. Black sheep occur in every fold. After periods of drought, seasons
+of great plenty frequently ensue. There should be magnificent raw
+material in this island, which will presently mature and keep you as
+busy as a bee."
+
+"Dar's my son, too," said Jefferson, encouragingly; "I'se pretty sure
+you hab him 'fore long."
+
+Then the man grew slightly more sanguine, and asked if we should care to
+sign his book, and make a few remarks in it before departing.
+
+"Of course I know it's only a small prison at best," he said,
+deferentially.
+
+"As to that," answered the Doctor, speaking for himself, "I have
+certainly been in a great many bigger ones, but never in any house of
+detention better conducted and cleaner kept than yours. You deserve
+more ample recognition. I should judge you to be a man second to none in
+your management of malefactors. For my part, I will assuredly write this
+much in your book."
+
+The volume was produced, and my brother sat down and expatiated about
+the charms and advantages of St. Kitts prison-house. He filled half a
+page with complimentary and irresponsible criticism; then he handed the
+book to me. The Superintendent said that he should take it as
+particularly kind if, in my remarks, I would insert a good word for the
+drainage system. Advised by the Doctor that I might do so with truth and
+justice, I wrote as follows:
+
+[Illustration: "SALUTING HIS MANY FRIENDS."]
+
+"A remarkably clean, ably-managed, and well-ordered establishment, with
+an admirable staff of officials, a gratifying scarcity of evil-doers,
+and particularly happy sanitary arrangements."
+
+Then we went off to rejoin the Enchantress and her mother, and see
+further sights during the brief time which now remained at our disposal.
+The ladies had completed their purchases, and with them we now traversed
+extended portions of the town, and visited a negro colony, where
+thatched roofs peeped out from among tattered plantain leaves, and
+rustic cottages hid in the shade of tamarind and orange, lime and
+cocoanut. The lazy folks lounged about, chewing sugar-cane and munching
+bananas, according to their pleasant custom. The men chattered, and the
+women prattled and played with their yellow and ebony babies. One saw no
+ambition, no proper pride, no obtrusive morality anywhere. Jefferson
+appeared to be a personage in these parts. He marched along saluting his
+many friends and smoking a cigar which the Doctor had given him. He
+stopped occasionally to crack a joke or offer advice; and when we came
+to any negro or negress whose history embraced a matter of interest,
+Jefferson would stop and lecture upon the subject, while he or she stood
+and grinned and admitted his remarks were unquestionably true. As a
+rule, instead of grinning, they ought to have wept, for Jefferson's
+anecdotes and scraps of private scandals led me to fear that about
+ninety-nine in a hundred of his cronies ought to be under lock and key,
+in spite of what the prison authorities had told us.
+
+Then we came down through a slum and found ourselves by the sea, upon a
+long, level beach of dark sand. The pier stood half-a-mile ahead, and we
+now determined to proceed without further delay to the boats, return to
+the "Rhine," and safely bestow our curiosities before she sailed.
+Apprised of this intention, Jefferson prepared to take leave of our
+party. He assured me that it had given him very considerable pleasure to
+thus devote his morning hours to our service. He trusted that we were
+satisfied with his efforts, and hinted that, though he should not dream
+of levying any formal charge, yet some trifling and negotiable memento
+of us would not be misunderstood or give him the least offence. We
+rewarded him adequately, thanked him much for all his trouble, and hoped
+that, when next we visited St. Kitts, his cheerful face might be the
+first to meet us. He answered:
+
+"Please God, gem'men, I be at de pier-head when next you come 'long.
+Anyhow, you ask for Jefferson." Then, blessing us without stint, he
+departed.
+
+And here I am reluctantly compelled to reprove the white and
+tawny-coloured inhabitants of St. Kitts for a breach of good manners.
+Boat-loads of gentlemen from shore crowded the "Rhine," like locusts,
+during her short stay at this island. They inundated the saloon bar,
+scrambled for seats at the luncheon-table, and showed a wild eagerness
+to eat and drink for nothing, which was most unseemly. One would have
+imagined that these worthy folks only enjoyed a hearty meal upon the
+occasional visits of a steamer; for after they had done with us they all
+rowed off to a neighbouring vessel, and boarded her in like manner,
+swarming up her sides to see what they could devour. That the
+intelligent male population of an island should come off to the ships,
+and chat with acquaintances and hear the latest news and enlarge its
+mind, is rational enough; but that it should organise greedy raids upon
+the provisions, and get in the way of the crew and passengers, and eat
+up refreshments which it is not justified in even approaching, appears
+to me unrefined, if not absolutely vulgar.
+
+Leprosy and gluttony are the prevailing disorders at St. Kitts. The
+first is, unfortunately, incurable, but the second might easily be
+remedied, and should be. All that the white inhabitants need is a shade
+more self-control in the matter of other people's food, then they will
+be equal to the best of their brothers at home or abroad.
+
+That afternoon the subject of influenza formed a principal theme in the
+smoking-room of the "Rhine." Our Fourth Officer said:
+
+"Probably I am better qualified to discuss it than any of you men; for,
+two years ago, I had a most violent attack of Russian influenza _in_
+Russia. Mere English, suburban influenza is child's-play by comparison.
+I suffered at Odessa on the Black Sea, and my temperature went up to
+just under two hundred, and I singed the bed-clothes. A friend of mine,
+an old shipmate, had it at the same place; and his temperature went
+considerably over two hundred, and he set his bed-clothes on fire and
+was burnt to death, being too weak to escape."
+
+This reminiscence would seem to show that our Fourth Officer has at last
+exhausted his supplies of facts, and will now no doubt fall back on
+reserves of fiction; which, judged from this sample, are probably very
+extensive. Though few mariners turn novelists, yet it is significant, as
+showing the great bond of union between seafaring life and pure
+imagination, that those who have done so can point to most gratifying
+results.
+
+[Illustration: "'PROBABLY I AM BETTER QUALIFIED TO DISCUSS IT THAN ANY
+OF YOU.'"]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: I. ZANGWILL.]
+
+_My First Book._
+
+BY I. ZANGWILL.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEO. HUTCHINSON.
+
+            -----
+
+As it is scarcely two years since my name (which, I hear, is a _nom de
+plume_) appeared in print on the cover of a book, I may be suspected of
+professional humour when I say I really do not know which was my first
+book. Yet such is the fact. My literary career has been so queer that I
+find it not easy to write my autobibliography.
+
+"What is a pound?" asked Sir Robert Peel in an interrogative mood futile
+as Pilate's. "What is a book?" I ask, and the dictionary answers with
+its usual dogmatic air, "A collection of sheets of paper, or similar
+material, blank, written, or printed, bound together." At this rate my
+first book would be that romance of school life in two volumes, which,
+written in a couple of exercise books, circulated gratuitously in the
+schoolroom, and pleased our youthful imaginations with teacher-baiting
+tricks we had not the pluck to carry out in the actual. I shall always
+remember this story because, after making the tour of the class, it was
+returned to me with thanks and a new first page from which all my graces
+of style had evaporated. Indignant enquiry discovered the criminal--he
+admitted he had lost the page, and had rewritten it from memory. He
+pleaded that it was better written (which in one sense was true), and
+that none of the facts had been omitted.
+
+This ill-treated tale was "published" when I was ten, but an old
+schoolfellow recently wrote to me reminding me of an earlier novel
+written in an old account book. Of this I have no recollection, but, as
+he says he wrote it day by day at my dictation, I suppose he ought to
+know. I am glad to find I had so early achieved the distinction of
+keeping an amanuensis.
+
+The dignity of print I achieved not much later, contributing verses and
+virtuous essays to various juvenile organs. But it was not till I was
+eighteen that I achieved a printed first book. The story of this first
+book is peculiar; and, to tell it in approved story form, I must request
+the reader to come back two years with me.
+
+[Illustration: "LOOKING FOR TOOLE."]
+
+One fine day, when I was sixteen, I was wandering about the Ramsgate
+sands looking for Toole. I did not really expect to see him, and I had
+no reason to believe he was in Ramsgate, but I thought if providence
+were kind to him it might throw him in my way. I wanted to do him a good
+turn. I had written a three-act farcical comedy at the request of an
+amateur dramatic club. I had written out all the parts, and I think
+there were rehearsals. But the play was never produced. In the light of
+after knowledge I suspect some of those actors must have been of quite
+professional calibre. You understand, therefore, why my thoughts turned
+to Toole. But I could not find Toole. Instead, I found on the sands a
+page of a paper called _Society_. It is still running merrily at a
+penny, but at that time it had also a Saturday edition at threepence. On
+this page was a great prize-competition scheme, as well as details of a
+regular weekly competition. The competitions in those days were always
+literary and intellectual, but then popular education had not made such
+strides as to-day.
+
+I sat down on the spot, and wrote something which took a prize in the
+weekly competition. This emboldened me to enter for the great stakes.
+
+[Illustration: "I SAT DOWN AND WROTE SOMETHING."]
+
+There were various events. I resolved to enter for two. One was a short
+novel, and the other a comedietta. The "L5 humorous story" competition I
+did not go in for; but when the last day of sending in MSS. for that
+had passed, I reproached myself with not having despatched one of my
+manuscripts. Modesty had prevented me sending in old work, as I felt
+assured it would stand no chance, but when it was too late I was annoyed
+with myself for having thrown away a possibility. After all I could have
+lost nothing. Then I discovered that I had mistaken the last date, and
+that there was still a day. In the joyful reaction I selected a story
+called "Professor Grimmer," and sent it in. Judge of my amazement when
+this got the prize (L5), and was published in serial form, running
+through three numbers of _Society_. Last year, at a press dinner, I
+found myself next to Mr. Arthur Goddard, who told me he had acted as
+Competition Editor, and that quite a number of now well-known people had
+taken part in these admirable competitions. My painfully laboured novel
+only got honourable mention, and my comedietta was lost in the post.
+
+[Illustration: Arthur Goddard.]
+
+But I was now at the height of literary fame, and success stimulated me
+to fresh work. I still marvel when I think of the amount of rubbish I
+turned out in my seventeenth and eighteenth years, in the scanty leisure
+of a harassed pupil-teacher at an elementary school, working hard in the
+evenings for a degree at the London University to boot. There was a
+fellow pupil-teacher (let us call him Y.) who believed in me, and who
+had a little money with which to back his belief. I was for starting a
+comic paper. The name was to be _Grimaldi_, and I was to write it all
+every week.
+
+"But don't you think your invention would give way ultimately?" asked Y.
+It was the only time he ever doubted me.
+
+"By that time I shall be able to afford a staff," I replied
+triumphantly.
+
+Y. was convinced. But before the comic paper was born, Y. had another
+happy thought. He suggested that if I wrote a Jewish story, we might
+make enough to finance the comic paper. I was quite willing. If he had
+suggested an epic, I should have written it.
+
+So I wrote the story in four evenings (I always write in spurts), and
+within ten days from the inception of the idea the booklet was on sale
+in a coverless pamphlet form. The printing cost ten pounds. I paid five
+(the five I had won), Y. paid five, and we divided the profits. He has
+since not become a publisher.
+
+[Illustration: "IT WAS HAWKED ABOUT THE STREETS."]
+
+My first book (price one penny nett) went well. It was loudly denounced
+by Jews, and widely bought by them; it was hawked about the streets. One
+little shop in Whitechapel sold four hundred copies. It was even on
+Smith's book-stalls. There was great curiosity among Jews to know the
+name of the writer. Owing to my anonymity, I was enabled to see those
+enjoying its perusal, who were afterwards to explain to me their horror
+and disgust at its illiteracy and vulgarity. By vulgarity vulgar Jews
+mean the reproduction of the Hebrew words with which the poor and the
+old-fashioned interlard their conversation. It is as if English-speaking
+Scotchmen and Irishmen should object to "dialect" novels reproducing the
+idiom of their "uncultured" countrymen. I do not possess a copy of my
+first book, but somehow or other I discovered the MS. when writing
+_Children of the Ghetto_. The description of market-day in Jewry was
+transferred bodily from the MS. of my first book, and is now generally
+admired.
+
+What the profits were I never knew, for they were invested in the second
+of our publications. Still jealously keeping the authorship secret, we
+published a long comic ballad which I had written on the model of Bab.
+With this we determined to launch out in style, and so we had gorgeous
+advertisement posters printed in three colours, which were to be stuck
+about London to beautify that great dreary city. Y. saw the back-hair of
+Fortune almost within our grasp.
+
+[Illustration: "A POLICEMAN TOLD HIM TO GET DOWN."]
+
+One morning our headmaster walked into my room with a portentously
+solemn air. I felt instinctively that the murder was out. But he only
+said "Where is Y.?" though the mere coupling of our names was ominous,
+for our publishing partnership was unknown. I replied, "How should I
+know? In his room, I suppose."
+
+He gave me a peculiar sceptical glance.
+
+"When did you last see Y.?" he said.
+
+"Yesterday afternoon," I replied wonderingly.
+
+"And you don't know where he is now?"
+
+"Haven't an idea--isn't he in school?"
+
+"No," he replied in low, awful tones.
+
+"Where then?" I murmured.
+
+"_In prison!_"
+
+"In prison," I gasped.
+
+"In prison; I have just been to help bail him out."
+
+It transpired that Y. had suddenly been taken with a further happy
+thought. Contemplation of those gorgeous tricoloured posters had turned
+his brain, and, armed with an amateur paste-pot and a ladder, he had
+sallied forth at midnight to stick them about the silent streets, so as
+to cut down the publishing expenses. A policeman, observing him at work,
+had told him to get down, and Y., being legal-minded, had argued it out
+with the policeman _de haut en bas_ from the top of his ladder. The
+outraged majesty of the law thereupon haled Y. off to the cells.
+
+Naturally the cat was now out of the bag, and the fat in the fire.
+
+To explain away the poster was beyond the ingenuity of even a professed
+fiction-monger.
+
+Straightway the committee of the school was summoned in hot haste, and
+held debate upon the scandal of a pupil-teacher being guilty of
+originality. And one dread afternoon, when all Nature seemed to hold its
+breath, I was called down to interview a member of the committee. In his
+hand were copies of the obnoxious publications.
+
+[Illustration: "'SUCH STUFF AS LITTLE BOYS SCRIBBLE UP ON WALLS.'"]
+
+I approached the great person with beating heart. He had been kind to me
+in the past, singling me out, on account of some scholastic successes,
+for an annual vacation at the seaside. It has only just struck me, after
+all these years, that, if he had not done so, I should not have found
+the page of _Society_, and so not have perpetrated the deplorable
+compositions.
+
+In the course of a bad quarter of an hour, he told me that the ballad
+was tolerable, though not to be endured; he admitted the metre was
+perfect, and there wasn't a single false rhyme. But the prose novelette
+was disgusting. "It is such stuff," said he, "as little boys scribble up
+on walls."
+
+I said I could not see anything objectionable in it.
+
+"Come now, confess you are ashamed of it," he urged. "You only wrote it
+to make money."
+
+"If you mean that I deliberately wrote low stuff to make money," I
+replied calmly, "it is untrue. There is nothing I am ashamed of. What
+you object to is simply realism." I pointed out Bret Harte had been as
+realistic, but they did not understand literature on that committee.
+
+"Confess you are ashamed of yourself," he reiterated, "and we will look
+over it."
+
+"I am not," I persisted, though I foresaw only too clearly that my
+summer's vacation was doomed if I told the truth. "What is the use of
+saying I am?"
+
+The headmaster uplifted his hands in horror. "How, after all your
+kindness to him, he can contradict you----!" he cried.
+
+"When I come to be your age," I conceded to the member of the committee,
+"it is possible I may look back on it with shame. At present I feel
+none."
+
+In the end I was given the alternative of expulsion or of publishing
+nothing which had not passed the censorship of the committee. After
+considerable hesitation I chose the latter.
+
+This was a blessing in disguise; for, as I have never been able to
+endure the slightest arbitrary interference with my work, I simply
+abstained from publishing. Thus, although I still wrote--mainly
+sentimental verses--my nocturnal studies were less interrupted. Not till
+I had graduated, and was of age, did I return to my inky vomit. Then
+came my next first book--a real book at last.
+
+In this also I had the collaboration of a fellow-teacher, Louis Cowen by
+name. This time my colleague was part-author. It was only gradually that
+I had been admitted to the privilege of communion with him, for he was
+my senior by five or six years, and a man of brilliant parts who had
+already won his spurs in journalism, and who enjoyed deservedly the
+reputation of an Admirable Crichton. What drew me to him was his mordant
+wit (to-day, alas! wasted on anonymous journalism! If he would only
+reconsider his indetermination, the reading public would be the richer!)
+Together we planned plays, novels, treatises on political economy, and
+contributions to philosophy. Those were the days of dreams.
+
+[Illustration: LIFE IN BETHNAL GREEN.]
+
+One afternoon he came to me with quivering sides, and told me that an
+idea for a little shilling book had occurred to him. It was that a
+Radical Prime Minister and a Conservative working man should change into
+each other by supernatural means, and the working man be confronted with
+the problem of governing, while the Prime Minister should be as
+comically out of place in the East End environment. He thought it would
+make a funny "Arabian Nights" sort of burlesque. And so it would have
+done; but, unfortunately, I saw subtler possibilities of political
+satire in it. I insisted the story must be real, not supernatural, the
+Prime Minister must be a Tory, weary of office, and it must be an
+ultra-Radical atheistic artisan bearing a marvellous resemblance to him
+who directs (and with complete success) the Conservative
+Administration. To add to the mischief, owing to my collaborator's
+evenings being largely taken up by other work, seven-eighths of the book
+came to be written by me, though the leading ideas were, of course,
+threshed out and the whole revised in common, and thus it became a
+vent-hole for all the ferment of a youth of twenty-one, whose literary
+faculty had furthermore been pent up for years by the potential
+censorship of a committee. The book, instead of being a shilling skit,
+grew to a ten-and-sixpenny (for that was the unfortunate price of
+publication) political treatise of over sixty long chapters and 500
+closely-printed pages. I drew all the characters as seriously and
+complexly as if the fundamental conception were a matter of history; the
+out-going Premier became an elaborate study of a nineteenth century
+Hamlet; the Bethnal Green life amid which he came to live was presented
+with photographic fulness and my old trick of realism; the governmental
+manoeuvres were described with infinite detail; numerous real
+personages were introduced under nominal disguises, and subsequent
+history was curiously anticipated in some of the Female Franchise and
+Home Rule episodes. Worst of all, so super-subtle was the satire, that
+it was never actually stated straight out that the Premier had changed
+places with the Radical working man, so that the door might be left open
+for satirically suggested alternative explanations of the metamorphosis
+in their characters; and as, moreover, the two men re-assumed their
+original _roles_ for one night only with infinitely complex effects,
+many readers, otherwise unimpeachable, reached the end without any
+suspicion of the actual plot--and yet (on their own confession) enjoyed
+the book!
+
+[Illustration: "HAD IT SENT ROUND."]
+
+In contrast to all this elephantine waggery the half-a-dozen chapters
+near the commencement, in which my collaborator sketched the first
+adventures of the Radical working man in Downing Street, were light and
+sparkling, and I feel sure the shilling skit he originally meditated
+would have been a great success. We christened the book _The Premier and
+the Painter_, ourselves J. Freeman Bell, had it type-written, and sent
+it round to the publishers in two enormous quarto volumes. I had been
+working at it for more than a year every evening after the hellish
+torture of the day's teaching, and all day every holiday, but now I had
+a good rest while it was playing its boomerang prank of returning to me
+once a month. The only gleam of hope came from Bentleys, who wrote to
+say that they could not make up their minds to reject it; but they
+prevailed upon themselves to part with it at last, though not without
+asking to see Mr. Bell's next book. At last it was accepted by Spencer
+Blackett, and, though it had been refused by all the best houses, it
+failed. Failed in a material sense, that is; for there was plenty of
+praise in the papers, though at too long intervals to do us any good.
+The _Athenaeum_ has never spoken so well of anything I have done since.
+The late James Runciman (I learnt after his death that it was he) raved
+about it in various uninfluential organs. It even called forth a leader
+in the _Family Herald (!)_, and there are odd people here and there, who
+know the secret of J. Freeman Bell, who declare that I. Zangwill will
+never do anything so good. There was some sort of a cheap edition, but
+it did not sell much, and when, some years ago, Spencer Blackett went
+out of business, I acquired the copyright and the remainder copies,
+which are still lying about somewhere. And not only did _The Premier and
+the Painter_ fail with the great public, it did not even help either of
+us one step up the ladder; never got us a letter of encouragement nor a
+stroke of work. I had to begin journalism at the very bottom and
+entirely unassisted, narrowly escaping canvassing for advertisements,
+for I had by this time thrown up my scholastic position, and had gone
+forth into the world penniless and without even a "character," branded
+as an Atheist (because I did not worship the Lord who presided over our
+committee) and a Revolutionary (because I refused to break the law of
+the land).
+
+[Illustration: MR. ZANGWILL AT WORK.]
+
+I should stop here if I were certain I had written the required article.
+But as _The Premier and the Painter_ was not entirely _my_ first book, I
+may perhaps be expected to say something of my third first book, and the
+first to which I put my name--_The Bachelors' Club_. Years of literary
+apathy succeeded the failure of _The Premier and the Painter_. All I did
+was to publish a few serious poems (which, I hope, will survive _Time_),
+a couple of pseudonymous stories signed "The Baroness Von S." (!), and a
+long philosophical essay upon religion, and to lend a hand in the
+writing of a few playlets. Becoming convinced of the irresponsible
+mendacity of the dramatic profession, I gave up the stage, too, vowing
+never to write except on commission, and sank entirely into the slough
+of journalism (glad enough to get there), _inter alia_ editing a comic
+paper (not _Grimaldi_, but _Ariel_) with a heavy heart. At last the long
+apathy wore off, and I resolved to cultivate literature again in my
+scraps of time. It is a mere accident that I wrote a pair of "funny"
+books, or put serious criticism of contemporary manners into a shape not
+understood in a country where only the dull are profound and only the
+ponderous are earnest. _The Bachelors' Club_ was the result of a
+whimsical remark made by my dear friend, Eder of Bartholomew's, with
+whom I was then sharing rooms in Bernard Street, and who helped me
+greatly with it, and its publication was equally accidental. One spring
+day, in the year of grace 1891, having lived unsuccessfully for a score
+of years and seven upon this absurd planet, I crossed Fleet Street and
+stepped into what is called "success." It was like this. Mr. J. T.
+Grein, now of the Independent Theatre, meditated a little monthly called
+_The Playgoers' Review_, and he asked me to do an article for the first
+number, on the strength of some speeches I had made at the Playgoers'
+Club. When I got the proof it was marked "Please return at once to 6,
+Bouverie Street." My office boy being out, and Bouverie Street being
+only a few steps away, I took it over myself, and found myself, somewhat
+to my surprise, in the office of Henry & Co., publishers, and in the
+presence of Mr. J. Hannaford Bennett, an active partner in the firm. He
+greeted me by name, also to my surprise, and told me he had heard me
+speak at the Playgoers' Club. A little conversation ensued, and he
+mentioned that his firm was going to bring out a Library of Wit and
+Humour. I told him I had begun a book, avowedly humorous, and had
+written two chapters of it, and he straightway came over to my office,
+heard me read them, and immediately secured the book. (The then editor
+ultimately refused to have it in the "Whitefriars' Library of Wit and
+Humour," and so it was brought out separately.) Within three months,
+working in odds and ends of time, I finished it, correcting the proofs
+of the first chapters while I was writing the last; indeed, ever since
+the day I read those two chapters to Mr. Hannaford Bennett I have never
+written a line anywhere that has not been purchased before it was
+written. For, to my undying astonishment, two average editions of my
+real "First Book" were disposed of on the day of publication, to say
+nothing of the sale in New York. Unless I had acquired a reputation of
+which I was totally unconscious, it must have been the title that
+"fetched" the trade. Or, perhaps, it was the illustrations by my friend,
+Mr. George Hutchinson, whom I am proud to have discovered as a
+cartoonist for _Ariel_.
+
+[Illustration: "EDITING A COMIC PAPER."]
+
+So here the story comes to a nice sensational climax. Re-reading it, I
+feel dimly that there ought to be a moral in it somewhere for the
+benefit of struggling fellow-scribblers. But the best I can find is
+this: That if you are blessed with some talent, a great deal of
+industry, and an amount of conceit mighty enough to enable you to
+disregard superiors, equals and critics, as well as the fancied demands
+of the public, it is possible, without friends, or introductions, or
+bothering celebrities to read your manuscripts, or cultivating the camp
+of the log-rollers, to attain, by dint of slaving day and night for
+years during the flower of your youth, to a fame infinitely less
+widespread than a prize-fighter's, and a pecuniary position which you
+might with far less trouble have been born to.
+
+[Illustration: "A FAME LESS WIDESPREAD THAN A PRIZE-FIGHTER'S."]
+
+
+
+
+_By the Light of the Lamp._
+
+BY HILDA NEWMAN.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY HAL HURST.
+
+          -----
+
+A day in bed! Oh! the horror of it to a man who has never ailed anything
+in his life! A day away from the excitement (pleasurable or otherwise)
+of business, the moving throng of city streets, the anticipated chats
+with business friends and casual acquaintances--the world of men.
+Nothing to look upon but the four walls of the room, which, in spite of
+its cosiness, he only associates with dreams, nightmares, and dull
+memories of sleepless nights, and chilly mornings. Nothing to listen to
+but the twittering of the canary downstairs, and the distant wrangling
+of children in the nursery: no one to speak to but the harassed
+housewife, wanted in a dozen places at once, and the pert housemaid,
+whose noisiness is distracting. The man lay there, cursing his
+helplessness. In spite of his iron will, the unseen enemy, who had
+stolen in by night, conquered, holding him down with a hundred tingling
+fingers when he attempted to rise, and drawing a misty veil over his
+eyes when he tried to read, till at last he was forced to resign
+himself, with closed eyes, and turn day into night. But the lowered
+blind was a sorry substitute for the time of rest, and brought him no
+light, refreshing sleep, so, in the spirit, he occupied his customary
+chair at the office, writing and receiving cheques, drawing up new
+circulars, and ordering the clerks about in the abrupt, peremptory
+manner he thought proper to adopt towards subordinates--the wife
+included.
+
+He tortured himself by picturing the disorganisation of the staff in his
+enforced absence--for he had grown to believe that nothing could prosper
+without his personal supervision, though the head clerk had been ten
+years in his employ. Then he remembered an important document, that
+should have been signed before, and a foreign letter, which probably
+awaited him, and fretted himself into a fever of impatience and
+aggravation.
+
+[Illustration: "RETURNING WITH A DAINTILY-SPREAD TRAY."]
+
+Just at the climax of his reflections his wife entered the room. She was
+a silent little woman, with weary eyes. Perhaps her burden of household
+cares, and the complaints of an exacting husband, had made her
+prematurely old, for there were already silver threads among the dark
+brown coils of hair that were neatly twisted in a bygone fashion, though
+she was young enough to have had a bright colour in her cheek, a merry
+light in her dark eyes, and a smile on her lips. These, and a becoming
+dress, would have made her a pretty woman; but a friendless, convent
+girlhood, followed by an early marriage, and unswerving obedience to the
+calls of a husband and family who demanded and accepted her unceasing
+attention and the sacrifice of her youth, without a word of gratitude or
+sympathy, had made her what she was--a plain, insignificant,
+faded-looking creature, with unsatisfied yearnings, and heartaches that
+she did not betray, fearing to be misunderstood or ridiculed.
+
+[Illustration: "FAST ASLEEP IN THE LOW WICKER ARMCHAIR."]
+
+She listened quietly to his complaints, and bore without reproach his
+mocking answers to her offers of help. Then she softly drew up the
+blind, and went downstairs, returning with a daintily-spread tray. But
+the tempting oysters she had had such trouble to procure were pettishly
+refused, and the tray was not even allowed to be in the room. The wife
+sat down near the window, and took up a little garment she was
+making--her face was flushed, and her lips trembled as she stitched and
+folded--it seemed so hard that she could do nothing to please him,
+knowing, as she did, that he considered hers an idle life, since they
+kept servants to do the work of the house. He did not know of her
+heart-breaking attempts to keep within the limits of her weekly
+allowance, with unexpected calls from the nursery, and kitchen
+breakages; he forgot that it would not go so far now that there were
+more children to clothe and feed, and, when she gently hinted this, he
+hurled the bitter taunt of extravagance at her, not dreaming that she
+was really pinched for money, and stinting herself of a hundred and one
+things necessary to her comfort and well-being for the sake of her
+family. Indeed, it was part of his theory never to yield to requests of
+this kind, since they were sure to be followed by others at no distant
+date, and, besides, he greatly prided himself on firmness in domestic
+matters.
+
+She was very worried to-day; anxious about her husband's health, and
+sorely grieved at the futility of all her efforts to interest or help
+him. Great tears gathered in her eyes, and were ready to fall, but they
+had to be forced back, for she was called out of the room again.
+
+And so it went on throughout the afternoon--in and out--up and
+down--never resting--never still--her thoughts always with the
+discontented invalid, who fell asleep towards evening, after a
+satisfactory meal, cooked and served by his patient helpmate, and eaten
+in a desultory manner, as if its speedier consumption would imply too
+much appreciation of her culinary kindness.
+
+About midnight he awoke, refreshed in body and mind, and singularly
+clear of brain.
+
+His first feeling was one of intense relief, for he felt quite free from
+pain, and to-morrow would find him in town, writing and scolding--in
+short, himself again. He sat up in bed, and looked round. The gas was
+turned low, but on a little table consecrated to his wants stood a
+carefully-shaded lamp. By its soft light he discovered his wife, fast
+asleep in the low, wicker armchair, whose gay chintz cover contrasted
+strangely with her neat dark dress. She had evidently meant to sit up
+all night in case he felt worse, but had succumbed from sheer weariness,
+still grasping the tiny frock she had been mending. He noticed her
+roughened forefinger, but excused it, when he saw the little, even
+stitches. Finally, he decided not to disturb her, but, as he settled
+down again on the comfortable pillow, he was haunted by the image of her
+pale face, and, raising himself on his elbow, looked at her again,
+reflectively. She was certainly very white.
+
+He blamed the lamplight at first, but his conscience spoke clearly in
+the dim silence, as he recalled her anxiety for him, and her gentle,
+restless footsteps on the stairs, and, now that he began to think of it,
+she had not eaten all day. He scolded her severely for it in his mind.
+Was there not plenty for her if she wanted it?
+
+But that inner self would not be silenced. "How about her idle life?" it
+said--"has she had time to eat to-day?"
+
+He could not answer.
+
+She sighed in her sleep, and her lashes were wet as from recent tears.
+For the first time he noticed the silver hairs, and the lines about her
+eyes, and wondered at them.
+
+[Illustration: "SOBBING OUT YEARS OF LONELINESS."]
+
+And the still, small voice pierced his heart, saying, "Whose fault is
+it?"
+
+As he shut his eyes--vainly endeavouring to dismiss the unwelcome
+thoughts that came crowding in upon his mind, and threatened to destroy
+his belief in the perfect theory he loved to expound--a past day rose
+before him. He held her hand, and, looking into her timid, girlish face,
+said to himself, "I can mould her to my will." Then she came to him,
+alone and friendless, with no one to help hide her inexperience and
+nervousness.
+
+He recalled the gentle questions he was always too busy to answer, till
+they troubled him no more; and the silent reproach of her quivering lips
+when he blamed her for some little household error. And, though he
+believed that his training had made her useful and independent, he
+remembered, with a pang of remorse, many occasions on which an
+affectionate word of appreciation had hovered on his tongue, and
+wondered what foolish pride or reserve had made him hesitate and choke
+it down, when he knew what it meant to her. Birthdays, and all those
+little anniversaries which stand out clearly on the calendar of a
+woman's heart, he had forgotten, or remembered only when the time for
+wishes and kisses was over. Yet he had never reproached himself for this
+before. But to-day he had seen enough to understand something of the
+responsibility that rested on her, the ignorance of the servants, the
+healthy, clamouring children, who would only obey _her_, and the hundred
+and one daily incidents that would have worried him into a frenzy, but
+which only left her serene and patient, and anxious to do her duty. The
+poor wan face had grown lovely to him, and the lines on her forehead
+spoke with an eloquence beyond the most passionate appeal for sympathy
+that she could have uttered--what would the house be without her? What
+if he were going to lose her? His heart was shaken by a terrible fear as
+he sat up with misty eyes, and, brokenly uttering her name, held out his
+arms imploringly.
+
+_Oh! God, if she should never wake again!_.... But she answered him,
+breathlessly, waking from a wonderful dream, in which she saw him
+wandering afar through a fragrant garden, that she longed to enter--then
+as she wept, despairingly hiding her face in her hands, she heard him
+calling her, first softly, then louder--and louder--
+
+And the garden faded away.
+
+But the dawn found her sobbing out years of loneliness on her husband's
+breast.
+
+
+
+
+_Memoirs of a Female Nihilist._
+
+BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. ST. M. FITZ-GERALD.
+
+               -----
+
+III.--ONE DAY.
+
+
+[Illustration: "AT BREAKFAST."]
+
+Eight o'clock in the morning. I am taking my tea while idly turning over
+the leaves of a book, when the noise of an explosion causes me to
+suddenly raise my head. Explosions are not of rare occurrence at the
+fortress of X----, of which the outer wall encloses several hundred
+barrack rooms and places where the garrison are exercised, and I am
+quite accustomed to the noise of cannon and small arms. This solitary
+explosion, however, seemed so close at hand, and has so strongly shaken
+the prison, that, anxious to know what has happened, I rise and approach
+the door and listen. A few moments of silence--then, suddenly, from
+somewhere in the corridor, comes the jingle of spurs, the clash of
+swords, and the sound of voices. At first, all this noise is stationary,
+then gradually it grows and appears to spread on all sides. Something
+extraordinary has surely happened behind this heavy door, something is
+now happening which causes me anxiety. But what is it? Standing on
+tip-toes, I try to look through the small square of glass covering the
+wicket, but the outside shutter is closed, and in spite of the habit
+which I and other prisoners have of finding some small aperture through
+which a glimpse of the corridor may be obtained, to-day I can see
+nothing. Only the noise of heavy and rapid footsteps, each moment
+stronger and more distinct, comes to my ears. I seem to hear in the
+distance the choked and panting voice of Captain W---- asking some
+question, then another nearer and unknown voice replies--"Oh! yes,
+killed! Killed outright!"
+
+[Illustration: "BREAKING THE CELL DOORS."]
+
+Killed? Who? How and why? Killed? My God! Have I heard aright? Killed!
+No, no; it is impossible! Breathless, and with beating heart, I consider
+for a moment in order to find some pretext for having this heavy door
+opened. Shall I ask to see the director--or the doctor--or say I am
+thirsty and have no water? The latter is the most simple, and, my jug
+hastily emptied, I return to the wicket to knock. In ordinary times the
+slightest blow struck on the little square of glass brings my "blue
+angel," the warder. Now, I knock loudly, and again and again. The
+intervals seem like an eternity, but the little shutter remains closed,
+while the sound of spurs, swords, and voices cross each other in the
+corridor, sometimes near, then dying away into the distance. A few
+moments more of anxious waiting and agony almost insupportable, then I
+raise my arm determined to break the window, when a new noise from the
+outside causes a shudder to run through me.
+
+Clear and sharp, the noise is that of windows broken in rapid
+succession; it is the signal that the prisoners have revolted. Distant
+at first, the noise approaches with lightning-like rapidity on the side
+of the principal building of the prison, and as it approaches it is
+accompanied by cries and loud questioning. Without knowing the cause of
+the outbreak, I seize the first hard object that comes to my hand, a
+dictionary, and with one bound I am on my table, and in my turn break
+the glass of my window, the fragments of which ring gaily as they fall,
+some into the court-yard, and the others on the stone floor of my cell.
+
+As the window falls to pieces a flood of light invades my cell, and I
+feel the warm air, and smell a perfume as of new-mown hay. For a moment
+I am blinded, suffocated, then with both hands I seize the iron bars and
+draw myself up to the narrow window ledge. A confused noise of breaking
+glass gradually passing away in the distance, and the cracking of wood
+fills the pure air of the glorious summer morning; while on all sides
+are heard the voices of anxious men and women, all asking the same
+questions, "What has happened? Why are we revolting?"
+
+[Illustration: "SHOT HIM THROUGH THE HEAD."]
+
+For a long time these questions remain unanswered, then at last a new
+and distant voice--at times rendered inaudible by the wind--announces
+that a warder, or a guard, has killed one of our comrades, the prisoner
+Ivanoff, in his cell, and that the prisoners in the other buildings are
+breaking the furniture and the cell doors.
+
+This reply, which comrades transmit from window to window, petrifies me.
+After hearing the explosion and the words spoken in the corridor; after
+a long and anxious incertitude; after this announcement of a revolt in
+which I myself am taking part--the reply is not unexpected. And yet I
+understand nothing of the matter; I am thoroughly upset, and my brain
+refuses to understand and believe. Killed? Ivanoff, the youth whom, by
+the way, I do not know personally. Killed? But why? Without weapons and
+under lock and key, what can he have done to deserve death? Has he
+attempted to escape? But does one attempt such an enterprise in open
+day and under the eyes of sentries and warders? Besides, Ivanoff had
+committed no other crime than fetching from the post-office a letter
+intended for one of his friends whose name he refused to give, while the
+friend, arrested since, has assumed the responsibility of the
+correspondence. Ivanoff was to have been liberated on bail in the course
+of a few days, and do those in such a position attempt escape on the eve
+of their release? But why, why has he been killed?
+
+These questions I ask myself while the sound of breaking glass
+continues. My neighbours appear to have been pursuing a train of thought
+similar to mine, for I hear several of them calling to our informant,
+and enquiring, "How and why was he killed?"
+
+Then a long, long, anxious wait, and then the reply, "Yes, killed!" Not
+by a warder, but by a sentry on guard in the court-yard, who, seeing
+Ivanoff at his window, shot him through the head. The occupier of a
+neighbouring cell, also at that moment at his window, saw the shot
+fired. Others heard the fall of the body. Some have called to him, and
+received no reply; therefore Ivanoff is dead. As to why he was
+assassinated, nobody knows.
+
+This recital, several times interrupted by noises and screams, is
+nevertheless clear and precise. My neighbours, one after the other,
+descend from their windows, and commence to break up furniture and
+attack the doors. I follow their example, and recommence my work of
+destruction. Water-bottle, glass, basin, the wicket in the door, and all
+that is fragile in my cell flies to pieces, and, with the broken glass
+from the window, covers the floor. In spite of the feverish haste with
+which I accomplish this sad task, my heart is not in the work. All this
+is so unexpected, so unreal, so violent, that it bewilders me. But
+through the bewilderment the questions, "Is it possible? And why?"
+continue to force their way. Then I say to myself, "If this man, this
+soldier, has really killed Ivanoff, it was, perhaps, in a fit of
+drunkenness; or, perhaps, his gun went off accidentally; or, perhaps,
+seeing a prisoner at a window, he thought it an attempt at escape."
+While these ideas, rapid and confused, rush through my brain, I continue
+to break everything breakable that comes under my hands--because the
+others are doing the same--because, for prisoners, it is the only means
+of protest. The sentiment, however, which dominates me is not one of
+rage, but of infinite sadness, which presses me down and renders weak my
+trembling arms.
+
+But now the uproar augments. Several prisoners have demolished their
+beds, and with the broken parts are attacking the doors. The noise of
+iron hurled with force against the oak panels dominates all others.
+Through my broken wicket, I hear the voice of the Commandant ordering
+the soldiers to fire on any prisoner leaving his cell, and to the
+warders to manacle all those who are attempting to break down their
+doors.
+
+[Illustration: "NADINE'S DOOR FORCED."]
+
+All these noises, blended with screams and imprecations, the jingle of
+spurs, the clatter of sword-scabbards crossing and recrossing each
+other, excite and intoxicate me. Wild at my lack of energy and strength,
+I seize with both hands my stool. It is old and worm-eaten, and after I
+have several times flung it on the floor, the joints give way, and it
+falls to pieces. As I turn to find some other object for destruction, a
+flushed and agitated face appears at the wicket, and a moment later the
+door is partly opened, and a warder pushes with violence a woman into my
+cell. So great is the force employed, and so rapid the movement, that I
+have difficulty in seizing her in my arms to prevent her falling upon
+the floor amongst the broken glass and _debris_ of furniture.
+
+This unexpected visitor is one of my friends and fellow-captives, Nadine
+B----. Surprised at this unexpected meeting, and the conditions under
+which it takes place, we are for some instants speechless, but during
+those few moments I again see all our past, and also note the changes
+which ten months' imprisonment have wrought in my friend; then, very
+pale, and trembling with nervous excitement, Nadine explains that her
+door having been forced during a struggle in the corridor, an officer
+ordered her to be removed and locked up with another female prisoner.
+Her cell was in the same corridor as that of Ivanoff, and of the death
+of the latter there is no doubt. Several comrades, her neighbours, have
+seen the body taken away. As to the grounds for his assassination, she
+heard a group of officers, before her door, conversing, and one said
+that the Commandant, not satisfied with the manner in which the warders
+in the corridors discharged their duties in watching the prisoners, gave
+orders to the sentries to watch from the court-yard and to shoot any
+prisoner who appeared at his window.
+
+This, then, is the reason for this assassination, in open day, of a
+defenceless prisoner! The penalty of death for disobedience to one of
+the prison regulations. Is this, then, a caprice, or an access of
+ill-temper, on the part of an officer who has no authority in this
+matter, since prisoners awaiting trial are only responsible to the
+representatives of our so-called justice? Like a thunderclap this
+explanation drives away my hesitation and sadness, which are now
+replaced by indignation and a limitless horror; and while Nadine, sick
+and worn, throws herself upon my bed, I mount to my window in order to
+communicate the news to my neighbours. The narrow court-yard, into which
+the sunshine streams, is, as usual, empty, excepting for the sentry on
+his eternal march. Above the wall I see a row of soldiers and
+workwomen's faces, all pale, as they look at the prison and listen to
+the noises. As I appear at the window a woman covers her face with her
+hands and screams, and I recognise her as the wife of one of our
+comrades, a workman. This cry, this gesture, the word "torture" that I
+hear run along the crest of the wall--all this at first surprises me.
+As, however, I follow the direction of the eyes of those gazing at me, I
+discover the cause. My hands, by which I am holding myself to the window
+bars, are covered with blood, the result of my recent work of
+destruction of glass and woodwork. There is blood, too, on my
+light-coloured dress. Poor woman! By voice and gesture I try to calm
+her. But does she hear me down there? The sentry looks towards me. He is
+young and very pale, and in his eyes, stupefied by what is going on
+around him, there is a world of carelessness and passiveness, and as I
+look into them a shudder of agony and despair passes through me.
+
+The voice of Nadine calling brings me to her side. Partly unconscious,
+she sobs in the commencement of a nervous crisis, and asks for water.
+Water! I have none. Not a drop! What is to be done?
+
+[Illustration: "A SOLDIER SEIZES THEM."]
+
+And while I try to calm her with gentle words and caresses, and look
+round in the vain hope that some few drops of the precious fluid may
+have escaped my notice, the door of the cell is suddenly opened, and
+several soldiers, drunk with the uproar and the fight, rush in. A cry of
+horror escapes me, and instinctively I retreat behind my bed. The noise
+of chains and the voice of the Commandant ordering that all prisoners be
+immediately manacled, reassures me. Ah! the chains! Only the chains! I
+do not intend to resist. All resistance on my part would be useless.
+Besides, I am anxious to be rid of the presence of these soldiers, and
+would willingly hold out to them my bleeding hands, if a confused idea
+in my brain did not tell me that such an act would be one of cowardice.
+And now a soldier seizes them, and drawing them behind my back, fastens
+heavy iron manacles to my wrists. Another attempts a similar operation
+upon Nadine, who, frightened, struggles and screams. Making an effort to
+calm her, I try to approach, but a sudden jerk on the chain attached to
+my manacles causes intense pain in my arms, and a rough voice cries
+"Back." Back? Why? I do not want to abandon Nadine, and instinctively I
+grasp the bed behind me. Another and a stronger jerk, I stumble, and a
+piece of broken glass pierces my thin shoe, and cuts my foot, and I am
+pulled backwards. I am now against that part of the wall where, at the
+height of about three feet, there is an iron ring, and whilst one of the
+soldiers attaches my chain to this ring Nadine is dragged towards the
+opposite wall.
+
+All this passes quickly in our cell, and the soldiers are soon gone and
+the door closed and locked. But in other cells prisoners resist, and as
+the struggle goes on and the noise increases so does the beating of my
+heart, and to me the tumult takes the proportions of a thunderstorm,
+and, broken down, I listen for some time without understanding the
+reason for the uproar.
+
+Slowly the noises die away. Nadine, either calmed or worn out, sobs
+quietly, and in this relative peace, the first for several hours, my
+mind becomes clearer, and I begin to have some idea of what is passing
+in and around me.
+
+My principal preoccupation is Nadine. She is pale, and appears to be so
+exhausted that I momentarily expect her to faint and remain suspended by
+the chains that rattle as she sobs. With a negative motion of her head
+and a few words, she assures me that the crisis is passed, that her arms
+pain her very much, and that she is very thirsty. Chained a few steps
+away, I cannot render her the slightest aid, and the thought of my
+helplessness is a cruel suffering. I, too, suffer in the arms. Heavy,
+they feel as though overrun and stung by thousands of insects, and, when
+I move, that sensation is changed to one of intense pain. My foot, too,
+is very painful, and as the blood oozes from my shoe it forms a pool,
+and I am very thirsty. All these sensations are lost in my extreme
+nervous excitement and anxiety for the others, who are now quiet, and
+for Nadine, from whom I instinctively turn my eyes.
+
+It is very warm, and through the broken window I see a large patch of
+sky, so transparent and luminous that my eyes, long accustomed to the
+twilight of my cell, can hardly stand the brightness. There is light
+everywhere. The walls, dry and white at this period of the year, are
+flooded with light, and the sun's rays, as they fall on the broken glass
+on the floor, produce thousands of bright star-like points, flashing and
+filling the cell with iridescent stars.
+
+[Illustration: "CHAINED AND THROWN FACE DOWNWARD."]
+
+With all this light there is the perfume-laden air blowing in at the
+window, and bringing the odours of the country in summer. Such is the
+quiet reigning that I can hear the sound of a distant church bell, can
+count the steps taken by the sentry in the court-yard below, and can
+hear the rustle of leaves of an open book on the floor, turned over by
+the gentle breeze.
+
+But this silence is only intermittent. In one of the cells during the
+struggle preceding the putting on of chains the soldiers threw a
+prisoner on the ground, and, in order to keep him still, one of them
+knelt upon his chest. Fainting, and with broken ribs, the unfortunate is
+rapidly losing his life's blood. His brother, a youth, who has been
+thrown into his cell as Nadine was into mine, grows frantic at the sight
+of the blood pouring from the victim's mouth, and screams for help. In
+another cell a prisoner who for a long time past has suffered from
+melancholia, suddenly goes mad, and sings the "Marseillaise" at the top
+of his voice, laughs wildly, and then shouts orders to imaginary
+soldiers. Elsewhere, of two sisters who for a long time past have shared
+the same cell, the eldest, chained to the wall, is shrieking to her
+sister, who, owing to the rupture of a blood-vessel, has suddenly died.
+At intervals she screams--"Comrades! Helena is dying--I think she is
+dead." Below, beneath our feet, a prisoner, too tightly manacled, his
+hands and feet pressed back and chained behind and thrown face downward,
+after making desperate efforts to turn over or keep his head up, at last
+gives up the struggle, and with his mouth against the cold stones and a
+choking rattle in his throat, he at intervals moans, "Oh! oh!"
+
+Each of these cries, accompanied by the strident clank of chains,
+produces upon me the effect of a galvanic battery, and I am obliged to
+put forth all that remains to me of moral strength to prevent myself
+from screaming and moaning like the others. With my feet in blood and my
+eyes burning with weeping, and the effect of the strong light, I try to
+maintain my upright position by leaning against the wall. Then from the
+depths of my heart something arises which causes it to throb as though
+it would burst.
+
+I have never hated! My participation in the revolutionary movement was
+the outcome of my desire to soothe suffering and misery, and to see
+realised the dream of a universal happiness and a universal brotherhood;
+and even here in prison, even this morning, within a few steps of an
+assassinated comrade, I sought explanations, that is to say, excuses; I
+thought of an accident, of a misunderstanding. Now, I hate. I hate with
+all the strength of my soul this stupid and ferocious _regime_ whose
+arbitrary authority puts the lives of thousands of defenceless human
+beings at the mercy of any one of its mercenaries. I hate it, because of
+the sufferings and the tears it has caused; for the obstacles it throws
+in the way of my country's development; for the chains which it places
+on thousands of bodies and thousands of souls; because of this thirst
+for blood which is growing within me. Yes! I hate it, and if it sufficed
+to will--if this tension of my entire being could resolve itself into
+action--oh! there would at this instant be many heads forming a
+_cortege_ to the bloody head of the comrade who has been so cowardly and
+ferociously assassinated.
+
+              *       *       *
+
+[Illustration: "REMOVED BEFORE OUR CHAINS WERE TAKEN OFF."]
+
+Eight o'clock at night. Nadine, very ill, sleeps upon my bed, groaning
+plaintively each time that an unconscious movement causes her to touch
+her arms, whilst I, like all the other prisoners not invalided, remain
+at my window. In spite of the silence of several months which has
+imposed upon us, the conversation flags. We are too tired, and there are
+too many sick amongst us; there are also the dead. Where are they now?
+Removed before our chains were taken off, they will this night be buried
+with other corpses of political prisoners, secretly hid away to rest by
+the police in order to avoid any public manifestation on the part of
+friends, or remarks on the part of the local population. These thoughts,
+at intervals, awaken our anger, and then murmurs are heard. As the night
+grows deeper, and the sounds of evening are lost in the mists, covering
+the country as with a veil, our sick nerves become calmer, and our
+hatred gives place to an immense and tender sadness. Then we talk of our
+mothers, of the mother of Helena Q----, and of Ivanoff's mother, both of
+whom are probably still in ignorance of the death of their children, and
+are still waiting and hoping. And then we talk of the impression made
+upon our parents and friends when the echoes of this terrible day reach
+their ears.
+
+Just as the rattle of drums announces that the gates of the fortress are
+about to be closed for the night, we hear the tramp of soldiers and the
+jingle of sword-scabbards in the ground-floor corridor. It is a
+detachment of soldiers, accompanied by their officers and Captain W----,
+who have come to fetch away two of our comrades in order to escort them
+to the military prison. Young and vigorous, these two prisoners fought
+fiercely before they were overpowered and chained, and as the Commandant
+of the fortress, impatient at the duration of the struggle, took part in
+it, he was roughly handled. Blows struck at a superior officer
+constitute a crime for which the offenders are to be tried by
+court-martial. They know it, and we know it. But this haste on the part
+of the Commandant to have them in his hands--this order to transfer them
+at night--which is given by the Director in a trembling voice--is it a
+provocation or a folly? The outer court-yard is gradually and silently
+filling with moving shadows. Rifles, of which the barrels glitter in the
+starlight, are pointed towards our windows. This mute menace of a
+massacre in the darkness finds us indifferent, and not one of us leaves
+his or her place at the window. But some are ill, and all wounded and
+tired out by the emotions and struggles of the day, and having been
+without food for over twenty-six hours; and can we revolt again? As
+regards the court-martial, none fear, and all would be willing to be
+tried by it. Its verdicts are pitiless, terrible; but they are verdicts,
+and it is an end. To-morrow, one after the other, we shall go to the
+Director's cabinet, and there sign a declaration of our entire
+solidarity with those who are now being taken away, and that
+declaration, every word of which will be an insult thrown in the face of
+the Government, will terminate by a demand for trial by court-martial,
+not only of ourselves, but also of the Commandant of the fortress. This
+demand, as usual, will be supported by famine, by the absolute refusal
+of all prisoners to take any nourishment whatsoever, a process which
+kills the prisoners, but before which the Government, anxious to avoid
+the disastrous impression which these numerous deaths produce, yields,
+at least in appearance. Whilst we wait all is darkness, for the warders
+have not lit the little lamps. Through the disordered cells run strange
+murmurs, and passions are again aroused; while below, those who are
+being taken away make hasty preparations for their short journey.
+
+I do not know them. We are about a hundred prisoners, arrested in
+different parts of the province at different times, and in spite of our
+being described as "accomplices," many of us have never met or heard of
+each other.
+
+[Illustration: "TIRED OUT."]
+
+A few days later, before the windows are replaced, and the dull grey
+cloud again presses upon us, the desire to see and know each other
+suggests an idea. Each prisoner, standing at the window, holds a mirror
+which he or she passes outside the bars. Held at an angle these pieces
+of glass throw back floating images of pale, phantom-like faces, many of
+them unknown or unrecognisable. Those who are to-night leaving the
+prison are, for me, not even phantoms, but only voices heard for the
+first time this morning, and now so soon to be silenced, by the cord of
+Troloff, or in some cell at Schlusselbourg or the Cross.[11] And yet, as
+I listen to these voices dying away in the dark distance, I again
+experience all the despair and all the hate of the day, and my last
+"adieu" is choked in a sob--and when, a few moments later, the heavy
+outer door is closed, a great shudder as of death passes over the
+prison.
+
+                         (_To be continued._)
+
+  [11] Troloff--the Russian public executioner. Schlusselbourg and the
+  Cross--names of central prisons where the prisoners, placed in small
+  cells, are always chained. Deprived of books or tools, not allowed to
+  see their friends, forbidden to write or receive letters, those subject
+  to the treatment, after a few months, become mad and die.
+
+
+
+
+_A Slave of the Ring._
+
+BY ALFRED BERLYN.
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN GULICH.
+
+          -----
+
+[Illustration: "A TROUBLED EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE."]
+
+The Rev. Thomas Todd, curate of S. Athanasius, Great Wabbleton, sat at
+the table in his little parlour with a local newspaper in his hand and a
+troubled expression on his face. There was something incongruous in the
+appearance of the deep frown that puckered the curate's brows; for his
+countenance, in its normal aspect, was chubby and plump and bland, and
+his little grey eyes were wont to shine with a benign and even a
+humorous twinkle. He was not remarkably young, as curates go; but he was
+quite young enough to be a subject of absorbing interest to the lady
+members of the S. Athanasius congregation, and to find himself the
+frequent recipient of those marks of feminine attention which are the
+recognised perquisites of the junior assistant clergy.
+
+Two or three times, the curate raised the paper from the table and
+re-read the passage that was evidently troubling him; and each time he
+did so the puckers deepened, and his expression became more and more
+careworn. It would have been difficult enough for a stranger to find any
+clue to the cause of his agitation in the portion of the _Wabbleton Post
+and Grubley Advertiser_ which the clergyman held before him; and the
+wonder would certainly have been increased by the discovery that the
+passage to which the reverend gentleman's attention was directed was
+nothing else than the following innocent little paragraph of news:--
+
+     "Grubley.--We are asked to state that Benotti's Original Circus,
+     one of the oldest established and most complete in the kingdom,
+     will give two performances daily at Bounders Green during the whole
+     of next week."
+
+There seemed little enough in such an announcement to bring disquiet to
+the curate's mind. Possibly, he cherished a conscientious objection to
+circuses, and remembered that, as Grubley and Great Wabbleton were only
+three miles apart, a section of the S. Athanasius flock might be allured
+next week by the meretricious attraction at Bounders Green. Yet even
+such solicitude for the welfare of the flock of which he was the
+assistant shepherd seemed scarcely to account either for his obvious
+distress, or for the fragments of soliloquy that escaped him at every
+fresh study of the paper.
+
+"Here, of all places in the world--absolute ruin--no, not on any
+account!"
+
+At length, throwing down the _Post_, the curate seized his hat, started
+at a rapid pace for the Vicarage, and was soon seated _tete-a-tete_ with
+his superior, an amiable old gentleman with a portly presence and an
+abiding faith in his assistant's ability to do the whole work of the
+parish unaided.
+
+"Vicar, do you think you can spare me for the next week or so? The fact
+is, I am feeling the want of a change badly, and should be glad of a few
+days to run down to my people in Devonshire."
+
+"My dear Todd, how unfortunate! I have just made arrangements to be away
+myself next week--and--and the week following. I am going up to London
+to stay with my old friend Canon Crozier. I was just coming to tell you
+so when you called. If you don't mind waiting till I return, I've no
+doubt we can manage to spare you for a day or two. Sorry you're not
+feeling well. By-the-bye, has that tiresome woman Mrs. Dunderton been
+worrying you? She came here yesterday about those candles, and
+threatened to write to the Bishop and denounce us as Popish
+conspirators. Couldn't you go and talk to her, and see if you can bring
+her to a more reasonable frame of mind?"
+
+The talk drifted to church and parish matters, and, as soon as he
+decently could, the curate took his leave, looking very much more
+depressed and anxious than ever. As he raised the latch of the Vicarage
+gate, a voice, whose sound he knew only too well, called to him by name;
+and, turning, he beheld Miss Caroline Cope, the Vicar's daughter,
+pursuing him skittishly down the garden path. Miss Caroline was not
+young, neither was she amiable, and her appearance was quite remarkably
+unattractive. All this would have mattered little to the curate, but
+for the fact that she had lately shown for him a marked partiality that
+had inspired him with considerable uneasiness. At this moment, when his
+mind was troubled with other matters, her unwelcome appearance aroused
+in his breast a feeling of extreme irritation.
+
+[Illustration: "DON'T RUN AWAY FROM ME."]
+
+"Don't run away from me, you naughty, unfeeling man," she began, with an
+elephantine attempt at archness. "I was going to ask you to take me down
+to the schoolrooms, but I shall have to go alone if you fly away from me
+like this."
+
+Mr. Todd, fervently wishing that flying were just then among his
+accomplishments, felt that now, while he was in the humour, was the
+time to free himself, finally if possible, from these embarrassing
+attentions.
+
+"I am sorry I cannot give myself the pleasure of accompanying you, Miss
+Cope. I have several sick persons and others to call upon in different
+parts of the parish, and my duties will fully occupy the whole of my
+morning. I'm afraid I don't happen to be going in the direction of the
+schools, so I must say 'good morning' here."
+
+And the curate raised his hat and passed on, fortifying himself with the
+reflection that what might in an ordinary case have been rudeness was in
+this instance the merest and most necessary self-defence.
+
+[Illustration: "A VIPEROUS LOOK IN HER FACE."]
+
+Miss Cope stood looking after his retreating figure with a viperous look
+in her face, and with a feeling of intense rage, which she promised
+herself to translate into action at the very earliest opportunity.
+
+Early in the following week, the Vicar started for London, and his
+curate was left in sole charge of the parish. That there was something
+amiss with Mr. Todd was evident to all who came in contact with him,
+both before and after the Vicar's departure. His former geniality seemed
+to have quite deserted him, and he looked worried, anxious, and ill. The
+ladies of S. Athanasius were greatly concerned at the change, and
+speculated wildly as to its cause. There was one among them, however,
+who made no comment upon the subject, and appeared, in fact, to ignore
+the curate's existence altogether. Whatever might be the source of that
+gentleman's troubles, he had, at any rate, freed himself from the
+unwelcome advances of Miss Caroline Cope.
+
+The third morning after the Vicar's departure, his assistant was sent
+for to visit a sick parishioner who lived just outside Great Wabbleton,
+on the high road to Grubley. The summons was an imperative one; but he
+obeyed it with a curious and unwonted reluctance. As he reached the
+outskirts of the town and struck into the Grubley road, his distaste
+for his errand seemed to increase, and he looked uneasily from side to
+side with a strange, furtive glance, in singular contrast to his usual
+steady gaze and cheerful smile. He reached his destination, however,
+without adventure, and remained for some time at the invalid's bedside.
+His return journey was destined to be more eventful. He had not
+proceeded far on his way back to Great Wabbleton, when a showily-dressed
+woman, who was passing him on the road, stopped short and regarded him
+with a prolonged and half-puzzled stare that ended in a sudden cry of
+amazed recognition. "Well--I'm blest--it's Tommy!"
+
+[Illustration: "IT'S TOMMY!"]
+
+She was a buxom, and by no means unattractive, person of about
+five-and-thirty, with an irresistibly "horsey" suggestion about her
+appearance and gait. As the curate's eye met hers, he turned deadly
+pale, and his knees trembled beneath him. That which he had dreaded for
+days and nights had come to pass.
+
+"Well, I'm blest!" said the lady again, "who'd have thought of meeting
+you here after all these years--and in this make-up, too! But I should
+have known you among a thousand, all the same. Why, Tommy, you don't
+mean to say they've gone and made a parson of you?"
+
+The curate was desperate. His first impulse was to deny all knowledge of
+the woman who stood gazing into his face with a comical expression of
+mingled amusement and surprise. But her next words showed him the
+hopelessness of such a course.
+
+"You're not going to say you don't know me, Tommy, though it _is_ nigh
+twenty years since we were in the ring together, and you've got into a
+black coat and a dog-collar. Fancy them making a parson of you; Lord,
+who'd have thought it! Well, I've had a leg-up, too, since then. I'm
+Madame Benotti now. The old lady died, and he made me missus of himself
+and the show. He often talks about you, and wouldn't he stare, just, to
+see you in this rig-out!"
+
+By the time, the Rev. Thomas Todd had recovered himself sufficiently to
+speak, and had decided that a bold course was the safest.
+
+"I'm really glad to see you again," he said, with a shuddering thought
+of the fate of Ananias; "it reminds me so of the old times. But, you
+see, things are changed with me. You remember the old gentleman who
+adopted me, and took me away from the circus? Well, he sent me to school
+and college, and then set his heart on my becoming, as you say, a
+parson. I haven't forgotten the old days, but--but you see, if the
+people round here knew about my having been----"
+
+"Lor' bless you, Tommy," broke in the good-natured _equestrienne_, "you
+don't think I'd be so mean as to go and queer an old pal's pitch; you've
+nothing to fear from me; don't be afraid, there's nobody coming"--for
+the curate was looking distractedly round. "Well, I'm mighty glad to
+have seen you again, even in this get-up, but I won't stop and talk to
+you any longer, or one of your flock might come round the corner, and
+then--O my! wouldn't there be a rumpus? Ha, ha, ha!"
+
+She laughed loudly, and the clergyman looked round again in an agony.
+
+"Now, Tommy, good-bye to you, and good luck. But look here, before you
+go, just for the sake of the old times, when you were 'little Sandy,'
+and I used to do the bare-backed business, you'll give us a kiss, won't
+you, old man?"
+
+And before the unhappy curate could prevent her, Madame Benotti had
+flung her muscular arms round his neck, and imprinted two sounding
+kisses on his cheeks.
+
+At that fatal moment, a female figure came round the bend of the road,
+and, to his indescribable horror, the curate recognised the dread form
+of the Vicar's daughter. She had seen all--of that there could be no
+doubt, but she came on, passed them, and continued on her way to Grubley
+without the smallest sign of recognition.
+
+"My goodness, Tommy, I hope that old cat wasn't one of your flock,"
+remarked Madame Benotti, with real concern, as soon as she had passed.
+"You look as scared as if you had seen a ghost; I hope I haven't----"
+
+But the curate waited to hear no more. With a hurried "Good-bye" he tore
+himself away, and made his way back to his apartments in a state
+bordering on desperation.
+
+[Illustration: "FLUNG HER MUSCULAR ARMS ROUND HIS NECK."]
+
+Locking himself in, he paced the room for some time, groaning aloud in a
+perfect frenzy of misery and apprehension. Then he flung himself into
+his chair, buried his face in his hands, and tried to think what was
+best to be done. After painful and intense thought, he decided that
+there was nothing for it but to tell Miss Cope the whole story, and
+appeal to her honour to keep it to herself. But how if she chose to
+revenge herself upon him by refusing to believe the story, or by
+declining to keep it secret? He could not conceal from himself that
+either of these results was more than possible. In that case, there
+remained only one resource; and it was of so terrible a nature that the
+curate positively shuddered at its contemplation. But it might even come
+to that; and better even _that_, he told himself, than the exposure, the
+ridicule, and the professional ruin that must otherwise befall him.
+
+Hour after hour passed, and he was still nerving himself for the coming
+interview, when a tap came at the door, and a note, left by hand, was
+brought in to him. He glanced at the address, and tore open the envelope
+with trembling hand. It contained these few words, without any sort of
+preliminary:--
+
+     "I think it right to give you warning that I shall take the
+     earliest opportunity of making known your disgraceful conduct
+     witnessed by me in the public streets this morning.
+
+                                                  "CAROLINE COPE."
+
+The Rev. Thomas Todd placed the letter in his pocket with an air of
+desperate resolve, and started forth for the Vicarage without another
+moment's delay. It was now or never--if he hesitated, even for an hour,
+he might be irretrievably lost.
+
+[Illustration: "MISS COPE WAS ENGAGED."]
+
+The first answer brought to him by the servant who opened the Vicarage
+door was not encouraging. "Miss Cope was engaged, and could not see Mr.
+Todd." But the curate dared not allow himself to be put off so easily.
+"Tell Miss Cope I _must_ see her on business of the most serious
+importance," he said; and the message was duly carried to the Vicar's
+daughter. That lady, after a moment's hesitation, felt herself unable
+any longer to resist enjoying a foretaste of her coming triumph, and
+ordered Mr. Todd to be admitted.
+
+The interview that followed confirmed the curate's worst fears. He told
+Miss Cope the whole story, and she flatly refused to believe a word of
+it. He begged her to go herself to the circus proprietor and his wife
+for proof of its truth, and she simply laughed in his face. He appealed
+to her honour to keep the story secret, and she coldly reminded him of
+the duty that devolved upon her, in her father's absence, of protecting
+the morals of his congregation.
+
+Then at last, beaten and baffled at all points, the unhappy curate
+played his final card. He offered the Vicar's daughter the best possible
+evidence of his sincerity by asking her to become his wife. The effect
+was magical. It was the first chance of a husband that had ever come to
+Caroline in her thirty-nine years of life, and she had an inward
+conviction that it would be the last. The secret she had just learnt was
+known to no one in the parish but herself, and so, after a brief
+pretence of further parley to save appearances, she jumped at the offer,
+and the curate left the Vicarage an engaged man. His last desperate
+throw had succeeded. He had saved his position and his reputation; but
+at what a cost he dared not even think.
+
+[Illustration: "SOMETHING VERY SERIOUSLY WRONG."]
+
+Within the next day or two, it became evident to all whom he met that
+there was something very seriously wrong with the Rev. Thomas Todd. His
+manner became first morose and abstracted, and then wild and eccentric.
+He was seen very little in the town, and when he did appear, his haggard
+face, his strange, absent air, and the unmistakable evidences of the
+profound depression that possessed him, were the objects of general
+remark. Some of the more charitable expressed a confident opinion that
+the curate had committed a crime; others decided, with more penetration,
+that he was going mad. From Miss Cope he kept carefully aloof. It had
+been arranged at that fatal interview that their engagement should be
+kept secret until the return of the Vicar, whose sanction must be
+obtained before the affair could be made public. Miss Cope was aware
+that the curate had two sermons to prepare in addition to his parish
+duties--for he would have to preach twice on Sunday owing to her
+father's absence; so she did not allow his non-appearance at the
+Vicarage on Friday or Saturday to greatly surprise her.
+
+If she could have seen the way in which the preparation of those sermons
+was proceeding, she might have found more cause for anxiety. Shut up in
+his room with some sheets of blank paper before him, the curate sat for
+hours together, staring vacantly at the wall before him, and
+occasionally giving vent to a loud, strange laugh. The evening of
+Saturday passed into night, and still he sat on, looking before him
+into the darkness with the same vacant stare, and uttering from time to
+time the same wild, hoarse chuckle.
+
+[Illustration: "THE REV. THOMAS TODD WAS STANDING ON HIS HEAD."]
+
+The light of Sunday morning, streaming into the room, fell upon a weird,
+dishevelled figure, that still stared fixedly at the wall, and every now
+and then muttered strange and wholly unclerical words and phrases. Still
+the hours wore on, until the sun rose high in the heavens, and the bells
+began to ring for church. Then came a knock at the curate's door. His
+landlady, surprised by his neglect of the breakfast hour, had been
+positively alarmed when he showed no sign of heeding the approach of
+church time. The knock was repeated; and then the clergyman sprang to
+his feet and unlocked the door.
+
+"Wait a moment," he cried, with a wild laugh. "_Now_ come in!"
+
+The landlady put her head in at the door, and uttered a shriek of horror
+and amazement. The Rev. Thomas Todd was standing on his head in the
+middle of the hearthrug.
+
+"God bless us and save us--the poor gentleman's gone clean out of his
+wits!"
+
+The curate's only reply was a shrill whoop, followed by an agile leap
+into an upright position, and a wild grab at the terrified lady, whose
+thirteen stone of solid matronhood he whirled round his head and tossed
+across the room as if it had been a feather-weight. Then, hatless and
+unkempt, he tore down stairs into the street, and started at a furious
+pace in the direction of S. Athanasius.
+
+It was three minutes to eleven, and the last stroke of the clanky
+church-bell had just died away in a series of unmusical vibrations. The
+townspeople, in all the added importance of Sunday clothes, gathered in
+an ever-thickening knot about the gates, greeting one another before
+they passed on into the church. At that moment, there floated towards
+them on the breeze a sudden, sharp shout that rooted them to the spot in
+positive consternation.
+
+[Illustration: "SCATTERED THEM RIGHT AND LEFT."]
+
+"Houp-la! Houp-la! Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!" And in another instant the
+unfortunate curate, tearing down the road, had flung himself among them
+and scattered them right and left by a series of vigorous and
+splendidly-executed somersaults. With a well-directed leap, and a wild
+cry of "Here we are again!" he vaulted lightly over the church gate, and
+began to run up the path towards the door, until, at last, the horrified
+onlookers awoke to the realities of the situation and half-a-dozen
+sturdy townsmen rushed upon and seized the unhappy man. Then a woman's
+piercing scream was heard, and the Vicar's daughter, who had just
+arrived on the scene, fell fainting to the ground.
+
+There was no service at S. Athanasius that morning, and the Rev. Thomas
+Todd was later on conveyed, still shouting fragments of circus dialogue,
+to the County Lunatic Asylum. The curate's mind had temporarily given
+way beneath the strain of the position in which he had found himself
+placed, and of the horrible future that lay before him, and his insanity
+had taken the form of an imaginary return to the scenes of his early
+life. When, some two years later, he was discharged cured, he attached
+himself to a mission about to start for the South African Coast, and
+left England without re-visiting Great Wabbleton.
+
+Long afterwards, Miss Caroline Cope, in a burst of confidence, one day
+related to her special friend, Miss Lavinia Murby, the doctor's
+daughter, how the Rev. Thomas Todd had proposed to her a few days before
+his melancholy seizure.
+
+"Ah, my dear, you see he couldn't have been right, even then," was that
+lady's sympathetic comment.
+
+[Illustration: "'HE COULDN'T HAVE BEEN RIGHT, EVEN THEN.'"]
+
+
+
+
+_People I Have Never Met._
+
+BY SCOTT RANKIN.
+
+    -----
+
+ZANGWILL.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+     "I will show this Anglo-Jewish community that I am a man to be
+     reckoned with. I will crush it--not it me. Then some day it will
+     find out its mistake; and it will seize the hem of my coat, and
+     beseech me to be its Rabbi. Then, and only then, shall we have true
+     Judaism in London.
+
+     "The folk who compose our picture are children of the Ghetto. If
+     they are not the children, they are at least the grandchildren of
+     the Ghetto."
+
+                                            --"CHILDREN OF THE GHETTO."
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration:    THE IDLER'S CLUB
+               SUBJECT FOR DISCUSSION
+                     "TIPPING."]
+
+
+[Sidenote: Joseph Hatton on the art of tipping.]
+
+Almost everything has been reduced to an art. You can learn journalism
+outside a newspaper, playwriting by theory, French without a master. How
+to succeed in literature and how not; both ways have been laid down for
+the student. There is scarcely an art or a habit you cannot learn in
+books. Etiquette, how to make up, stock-jobbing, acting, gardening, and
+a host of intellectual pursuits, have their rules and regulations; but
+the mysterious and delicate art of tipping as yet remains unexploited in
+the social ethics of this much-taught generation. It is high time that
+the proper method of giving tips should be defined, its laws codified,
+its many possibilities of error guarded against, and some system set
+forth whereby the tipper may give the greatest satisfaction to the
+tipped at the most moderate, if not the least, outlay in current coin of
+the realm. The art could be illustrated with many examples from the
+earliest times. Pelagia's tip to Hypatia's father was the dancer's
+cestus, which was jewelled with precious stones enough to stock the shop
+of a Bond Street jeweller of our own time. According to the truthful
+interpretation of the old English days which we find in the drama, the
+most popular method of tipping was to present your gold in a long,
+knitted purse, which you threw at the tippee's feet or slapped into the
+palm of his hand; but this system seems to have lapsed; and no fresh
+regulation has been established in the unwritten laws of the _douceur_,
+which goes back even before the days when extravagant and unwilling tips
+were often enforced with pincers, racks, and other imperative
+inventions. Monte Cristo gave wonderful tips, and Monte Carlo is lavish
+to this day. The genius that wrecked Panama has an open hand. Promoters
+of London companies know how to be liberal. Not much art is required, I
+believe, to distribute largess of this kind. Nor are certain classes of
+American aldermen difficult to deal with. The art that should be made
+most clear is how to pay your host's servants for your host's
+hospitality; how to show your gratitude to a newspaper man without
+hurting his _amour propre_; how to meet the requirements of the
+middleman of life and labour without "giving yourself away"; how to tip
+the parson when you are married; and, in this connection, one may remark
+the consolation of dying; the tippee does not trouble you at your own
+funeral.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: With reference to waiters, deans, and other public servants.]
+
+The waiter at public dinners is a very considerate person. He assists
+you in every possible way he can. With every dish he practically jogs
+your memory; and, as an accompaniment to the dessert, he informs you
+that he "must now leave"; is there "anything else he can do for you?" If
+you are of a reflective nature you may, in a moment of abstraction, rise
+from your seat and shake hands with him; but if, as a right-minded
+citizen, you have constantly in view the universal claim upon your
+purse, you will thank your friendly and condescending attendant, and pay
+him for the services he has rendered to his employer. You may in your
+thoughtlessness and abstraction have jeopardised the success of the
+waiter's arrangements for carrying off a certain bottle of wine which he
+had planted for convenient removal. How much you should give him is
+considered to depend upon the quality of the wine which you have been
+fully charged for with your ticket; and this question of cuisine and
+wine still further complicates the difficult adjustment of the rightful
+claims of the attendant and what is due to your own honour, not to
+mention your reputation as a _gourmet_. An irreverent American, after a
+first experience, I conclude, of English travel, said that you are safe
+in tipping any Britisher below the dignity of a bishop; but a
+fellow-countryman, guided by this opinion, felt very unhappy when,
+after being shown over a famous cathedral by the dean, he slipped
+half-a-sovereign into his very reverend guide's hand, and received, in
+return, an intimation that the poor's box was in the porch. I remember
+on one occasion, when I was investigating a question that called for
+special courtesy on the part of a public official, I was disturbed
+during my work with the question whether I might tip him, and, if so, to
+what extent. The subject almost "got on my nerves" before the inquiry,
+which lasted an hour or two, came to an end; at last I determined that
+it was a case for a tip. I gave him ten shillings. For a moment I
+thought I had offended him, and, remembering the dean and the poor box,
+was about to say, "Give it to a charity," when the official plaintively
+inquired if I couldn't "make it a sovereign?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: He discourses concerning the ethics of tipping.]
+
+Give up the idea that tipping will succumb to any agitation. So long as
+commodities have to be paid for in cash, and not in fine words and sweet
+smiles, tipping will exist. The moralist may rave against it, but ask
+him in what way his gratitude manifests itself when a railway porter
+politely relieves him of half-a-dozen bags, and deposits them in a snug
+corner, whilst he has barely time to take his ticket at the
+booking-office. It is surely impossible to abuse the same porter if, out
+of a feeling of recognition for favours previously received, he leaves
+the belated passenger to manage the best way he can under a cartload of
+shawls, rugs, hat and bonnet-boxes, to attend again to your comforts.
+You hardly sympathise with your fellow-traveller, although he may be
+using very strong language against the identical porter, in whose
+favour, for the second time, you part with a few coppers. It is the
+desire to secure the comforts and commodities provided by the activity
+of others that will perpetuate tipping. After all, this is not limited
+to menials. It is given, and unscrupulously accepted by all grades of
+society, and by all conditions of men. I have known a company director
+give to a titled nobody a berth promised to someone else, because he had
+been familiarly addressed by His Lordship in a public place, and had
+been "honoured" by a few minutes' conversation. That was not, of course,
+a tip in the ordinary sense of the word, but it amounted, however, to
+the same thing. It secured a good berth to his "Excellency." And what
+say you of the whiskies and waters, brandies and sodas, the champagne,
+oysters, luncheons, and dinners to which our good city men generously
+ask a would-be customer? That, I suppose, is called "paving the way to a
+good business." I have not unfrequently heard people regret that they
+were unable to refuse a favour in return for a civility. That civility
+was most likely a dinner, or even something less. Kisses distributed by
+ladies in hotly-contested constituencies, the promise of a Government
+post, an invitation to a party, a mere familiar recognition, a penny,
+are all varieties which make the thing so general.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: He believes the custom will die out with human nature.]
+
+Wedding presents are not given without an _arriere pensee_, and at
+Christmas our object is mostly to please the parents. Our indignation,
+however, is not roused by this, because we are in the habit, I suppose,
+of distributing and receiving such acknowledgments ourselves. We want to
+suppress small tips; in fact, such as are most wanted by the recipient,
+whose only source of revenue they constitute in many cases. We fail to
+realise that, were servants well paid, "tipping" would not take the form
+of an imposition. Employers, especially at hotels and restaurants,
+either give ridiculously low wages, or suppress these altogether, and in
+many establishments hire the tables to the waiters at so much a day or
+week for the privilege of serving. At present this custom has become so
+deeply rooted that it has given growth to a most perfect secret code of
+signs and marks by which each class of servants is informed how much he
+has to expect from the liberality of the inexperienced and unwary
+stranger. This applies especially to hotel servants, and has become the
+crying abuse against which we try to react. This code is not local, but
+has acquired an internationality which professors of Volapuk would be
+proud to claim for their language. I remember once an irascible old
+gentleman complaining bitterly against the incivility of the hotel
+servants, who never helped him with his traps. He found no exception to
+the rule except when his wanderings took him to some remote part of
+Scotland, where, he assured me, the "_braying of the socialist pedants
+had not yet been heard_." I suspected that my friend was not
+over-generous, and timidly sounded him on the point. His reply confirmed
+my suspicion. I thereupon showed him the cause of the servants'
+inattention, amounting sometimes even to rudeness--a _little chalk mark
+on each bag_. I advised him to carefully wipe that off after leaving the
+hotels. The effect was most satisfactory--my friend has had no reason
+to complain since, at least when he got into a hotel. The position of
+hotel labels also serves to indicate if anything can be expected from
+the traveller. Of course, this is not countenanced by "mine host," who
+dismisses the user of such messages, but as that man is generally a
+wide-awake and useful rogue, there is little doubt but that he is
+reinstated in his functions shortly after the traveller is gone. Beggars
+and tramps have a similar system of conveying to their _confreres_
+information as to the likely reception they may expect from the
+occupants of the different residences on the road. They never fail to
+warn them against dogs and other disagreeable surprise or dangers,
+should they by some unaccountable absent-mindedness forget that there is
+such a thing as the eighth commandment. In conclusion, _pourboire_,
+_buona mancia_, _backshish_, tipping or bribery, was born with man, and
+will only die out with him.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Giuseppe of the Cafe Doney, at Florence: his experience.]
+
+Ah! Milor, what do I think of "teeping?" What would become of me without
+it? In some forty or fifty years I shall be a rich man, and perhaps keep
+a _cafe_ myself, thanks to the benevolence and generosity of the
+American and English milors. At first I was a cabman, but in Italy no
+one gives the cabman a _pourboire_; so my friends said, "Ah! Giuseppe,
+you must make money somehow. Become a waiter, and you will grow rich."
+So they took me to our padrone, and he made me a waiter, and I am
+growing rich on "teeps." But it is not my own compatriots, Milor, who
+make me rich. When I attend one of them, he will only give me ten
+centimes (a penny), and if I attend two of them they will give me
+fifteen centimes between them. But the English and Americans will
+sometimes give me fifty or a hundred centimes at a time. But, alas! that
+happens very seldom. When I am in luck I save two hundred centimes a day
+(1s. 8d.), and shall, in a great many years, have a _cafe_ of my own.
+Perhaps Milor will assist? _Grazie._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: The head waiter at the ---- sets forth his views.]
+
+Instead of complaining against tipping, the public should oblige the
+employers to pay their servants more liberally. In modern
+restaurants--and I suppose the custom has come from Paris--waiters have
+to pay the employers sums varying from one to four shillings a day
+according to the number and position of tables they serve. Their work
+averages from fourteen to sixteen hours a day. It begins at eight, and
+sometimes long after midnight they are still at work. Out of their
+earnings they have to pay all breakages and washing, and, for the thirty
+to thirty-five shillings they earn a week, they have to put up, from a
+class of customers, with patience and a perpetual smile, more abuse than
+one in any other ten men would stand. It not unfrequently happens that a
+waiter would do without it rather than accept a tip which assumes the
+form of an insult. We look upon it as a remuneration due to us, and,
+after trying to satisfy the client, we do not see why he should think it
+an unbearable nuisance, and treat the recipient with contempt. In many
+cases, after exacting the most constant attention, and heaping unmerited
+abuse on the irresponsible waiter, the client who has most likely spent
+on himself enough to keep a family a whole week, grudges the sixpence he
+has to give the attendant, and makes him feel it by throwing the coppers
+down, accompanying the action by an insulting remark. Like all men whose
+business it is to minister to the comfort of others, many among us are
+very shrewd observers, and can tell at a glance what treatment we may
+expect from certain customers, and we behave accordingly. We are seldom
+mistaken in our judgment. Experience has taught us that the most
+generous, and at the same time most gentlemanly, "tippers" are the
+Israelitish Anglo-German financiers. There is a difference between them
+and the young spendthrift who inconsiderately throws away his money. No,
+sir, the Anglo-German banker, orders, goes carefully through the
+account, and then gives his money liberally. After him comes the
+Russian. The Englishman, who is next best, is closely followed by the
+French and German.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: His opinion of Americans as tippers.]
+
+The American is nowhere. It is a mistaken idea to believe that he is
+generous. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, but the majority
+of them come out here just to see the sights, and talk about them on
+their return. A certain sum is laid aside for the purpose, and I am sure
+they contrive to make economies upon it. The Americans are, besides,
+disagreeable to serve. They never lose the opportunity of making
+disparaging comparisons between their country and the old world. Our
+restaurants are country inns compared to theirs, their waiters are
+smarter, their services of better class, our cooking is miles behind
+theirs, and as to concoction of drinks, of course we have to take a
+back seat. We are also very slow. A steak, in Chicago, for instance, is
+cooked in about the fifteenth of the time required here. When it comes
+to paying, the American finds that everything is also dearer over here;
+gives very little or nothing to _that inattentive waiter_, threatens to
+lodge a complaint against him, and goes away satisfied that everyone is
+impressed by the grandeur of the Great Republic as represented by
+himself, one of its worthy citizens.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Of Scotchmen and millionaires.]
+
+In England, the Scotch are the least liberal. In Scotland, waiters and
+hotel servants are paid. An attempt to introduce in Edinburgh the
+continental system failed most ignominiously in 1886, and the
+enterprising _restaurateur_ had to revert to the local system, and
+replace all the former waiters, who ran back to London rather than be
+reduced to the dire necessity of going into the workhouse. Young men, as
+a rule, are more generous than elderly people, and the fair sex is, in
+general, very stingy. A gentleman accompanied by a lady, if she is only
+an acquaintance, is sure to tip generously, _pour la galerie_, although
+he may look as if he wanted to accompany every penny by a kick. But when
+the same person dines with his wife or sister, the remuneration is as
+small as decency can permit. When a waiter spots such a relation between
+a party of diners, he generally tries to escape the obligation of
+offering them a table. At the large restaurants we gauge the diners'
+liberality very frequently at one glance, and in any case form an
+accurate opinion of him by the way he orders his _menu_. We know whether
+we have to do with a gentleman or a cad, and whether his subsequent
+parsimoniousness is caused by cussedness or simply ignorance of the
+customs of such establishments, and we treat him in consequence. It is
+pitiful sometimes to see all the ruses employed by well-meaning people,
+unwilling to be thought unaccustomed to the life of a large restaurant,
+and my advice to such persons would be to remain natural rather than
+become ridiculous. The manner in which the tip is given varies according
+to the nationality and character of the donor. The most ostentatious
+among these is the South American millionaire, whose gift varies
+according to the number of people present. As a rule, the wealthy man is
+not generous.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: A commissionnaire can tell people's dispositions at sight.]
+
+I can say at first sight whether a person is of a kindly disposition,
+for I would rather assist such a person and get nothing than one who
+makes me feel the weight of his liberality. The amount a man may make
+depends a great deal on his wits. To forestall a gentleman's wishes,
+give him the necessary information, and to the point; to assist him when
+assistance is most needed, and not before, is what is most appreciated.
+When in a theatre I see a couple occupying a bad seat, when better ones
+are vacant, I make the suggestion, and would certainly be astonished if
+the gentleman did not acknowledge the hint. When the working classes do
+not syndicate they have to accept wages so ridiculously low that they
+are obliged to find some means of increasing their earnings. But will it
+ever be possible to suppress the "evil"? Allow me to doubt it. The thing
+is, therefore, to prevent tipping taking the form of an imposition. This
+can only be done by paying good wages.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Barr gives the straight tip.]
+
+A native of Cuba once said to me, with an air of proud superiority, "We
+have the yellow fever _always_ in Havana." I was unable to make any such
+boastful claim for North America, and so the Cuban rightly thought he
+had the advantage of me. They think nothing of the yellow fever in
+Havana, but when the malady is imported into Florida the people of that
+peninsula become panic-stricken. The yellow fever in the Southern States
+strikes terror. It seems to be worse in its effects when it enters the
+States than it is where they always have it. So it is with tipping. It
+is always present in Europe in a mild form, but periodically tipping
+swoops down upon the United States, and its effects are dreadful to
+contemplate. If tipping ever becomes epidemic in America, the
+unfortunate citizens will have to leave, and seek a cheaper country, for
+the haughty waiter in an American hotel scorns the humbler coins of the
+realm, and accepts nothing less than half a dollar. Happily, tipping
+has, up to date, been more or less of an exotic in America, but I have
+grave fears that the Chicago Exhibition, attracting as it does so many
+incurable tippers from Europe, will cause the disease to take firm root
+in the States, and entail years of suffering hereafter.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[Sidenote: Summing up.]
+
+I do not agree with the member of the club who holds in one paragraph
+that Scotsmen are mean in the giving of tips. Speaking as a Scotsman
+myself, I admit that we like to go the whole distance from Liverpool
+Street to Charing Cross for our penny. We desire to get the worth of
+our bawbee. And it is a cold day when we don't. But it must be
+remembered that a Scotsman is conscientious, and he knows that tipping
+is an indefensible vice, so he discourages it as much as possible, being
+compelled by custom to fall in with it. Then, again, the man who claims
+that Americans are not liberal doesn't know what he is talking about.
+The trouble with the American is that he does not know the exact amount
+to give, and that bothers him, and causes him to curse the custom in
+choice and varied language. Speaking now as an American, I will give a
+tip right here. If Conan Doyle, or George Meredith, or some author in
+whom Americans have confidence, would get out a book entitled, say, "The
+Right Tip, or Tuppence on the Shilling," giving exactly the correct sum
+to pay on all occasions, Americans would buy up the whole edition and
+bless the author. I think Americans are altogether too lavish with their
+tips, and thus make it difficult for us poorer people, whom nobody tips,
+to get along. A friend of mine, on leaving one of the big London hotels,
+changed several five pound notes into half-crowns, and distributed these
+coins right and left all the way from his rooms to the carriage, giving
+one or more to every person who looked as if he would accept. He met no
+refusals, and departed amidst much _eclat_. He thought he had done the
+square thing, as he expressed it, but I looked on the action as
+corrupting and indefensible. He deserves to have his name blazoned here
+as a warning, but I shall not mention it, merely contenting myself by
+saying that he was formerly a United States senator, was at that time
+Minister to Spain, and is at the present moment President of the World's
+Fair.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     The portrait of Mrs. Henniker, which appeared in _The Idler_ for
+     May--"LIONS IN THEIR DENS": V. THE LORD LIEUTENANT AT DUBLIN
+     CASTLE--was from a photograph taken by Messrs. WERNER AND SON, OF
+     DUBLIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Idler Magazine, Volume III., July
+1893, by Various
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLER MAGAZINE ***
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